


Keys and Cages

by orphan_account



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, Blindfolds, Blindness, Bondage, Captivity, Chastity Cage, F/M, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Non Consensual, Non-Erotic Flagellation, Oral Sex, Psychological Torture, Sensory Deprivation, Sexual Slavery, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-22
Updated: 2012-04-12
Packaged: 2017-10-26 10:50:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 94,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Charles and Raven are taken captive by King Shaw, they're separated and married off -- Charles to Shaw and Raven to Erik. There's nothing but the worst to assume of the man known as the Black King and his stoic right-hand.</p><p>Luckily for Raven, Erik deems her a tad too young for him and instead awkwardly adopts her as something of a surrogate little sister. He turns a blind-eye when she begins a covert affair with a scientist in Shaw's Kingdom, Henry.</p><p>Charles, however, is not so lucky. Shaw is an obsessed and possessive man who will do anything, including ban any sort of interaction between Charles and others, to assure that his new prince falls in love with him and only him. But when Erik sneaks Raven in for a secret visit and she sings the knight's praises, Charles wants to meet the man who has been so kind to his sister. Struck by Charles' composure despite a seemingly dire situation, eventually Erik visits on his own behind his King's back.</p><p>But the more he gets to know the prince and princess, the more Erik starts to question his years of unquestioned loyalty to Shaw. And the Black King isn't known to take trespasses lightly, no matter who the trespasser is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Kink meme prompt: http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/5215.html?thread=5818207#t5818207
> 
> I'm already about 6 chapters in by the time of posting this here on AO3, so I feel confident in saying that this has become a very complicated, convoluted mess. My handling of the passage of time is probably the worst, and it's difficult because I'm jumping POVs often enough to make your head spin.
> 
> That said, this entire thing is probably going to be kind of long. I'm hoping that I handle characterization well, above everything else, but also that the psychology is logical. It's going to deal with a lot of terrible things and, in terms of Charles/Erik, has a rather slow build-up. But I hope that just makes it worth it when it happens.

Their first memories would the same, and yet completely different – so distinctly different that it would seem only the passage of time was similar between them.

Raven remembered fear and panic that melted into appreciation and newfound strength in herself.

Erik recalled hesitation and skepticism that turned to love and the need to protect something more precious than a kingdom and a memory.

Charles could recount only darkness punctuated by brushes of much needed warmth.

\--------

 **SEPTEMBER**

Erik couldn't say he approved of Shaw pushing ahead without him, but then again, Shaw did a lot of things that Erik didn't approve of. He'd gotten used to it over the years.

The Westchester Kingdom, nestled in the east and, quite possibly, the outermost reaches of Shaw's growing territory, wasn't going to be an easy place to take. It was small, yes, but it was backed by mountains that provided an excellent place to hold ground even if he should be able to push past the defenses of their plain strategies. Quite simply, despite it's small formation, Westchester knew what it was doing. It had for years, which was why the kings who attempted to take it in the past were not successful. Its people were loyal and its soldiers well trained, if anyone should have accompanied him then it was Erik.

Unfortunately, their last battle had resulted in an injury too grave to simply ignore—which was his preference for these sorts of things, ignoring them—and he was told to stay behind. Shaw sounded good-natured about it when he gave his reassurances, chiding Erik for thinking he'd be of any use when he couldn't rise without soaking numerous rags with blood, but Erik wasn't convinced. Brian Xavier wasn't going to be like so many villages and other kingdom's they'd taken, and they both knew it wasn't just arrogance that drove Erik to be there.

The only small condolence was the fact that the offensive wound—a clear stab through his right side by a short sword—was earned in protecting his liege’s life. If he was going to be forced to recuperate, he didn't think he could have had a more honorable excuse for it.

His recovery seemed to span the extent of his king's absence – much longer and he would have been able to go after him. It was a few short days after he had considered doing just that when the news arrived that there would be no need. Shaw had succeeded – Westchester was theirs and he would be back in Lourdes within a few weeks.

\--------

The trip from Westchester to Lourdes, the re-named capitol of Sebastian Shaw's growing empire, was agonizing for only one reason: She hadn't had the chance to apologize to Charles.

They weren't kept together. It seemed like from the moment Shaw—and she _refused_ to call him “King”—had seen her brother, he was determined to keep them apart. Something terrifying came over his dark eyes, she could see it even from where she was peering around Charles' side, and she couldn't put a name to it. She wasn't sure she wanted to.

For a split second time stopped, freezing the three of them in her bedroom. Charles stood in front of her defiantly, just seconds after twisting around from trying to push her towards the secret passage behind her dresser, despite being unarmed. He knew how to fight, he had a sword, but everything had happened so fast. It hadn't even occurred to him that he would be fighting that day, despite knowing that it was inevitable. They'd been expecting months before Charles or her father should have had to go to battle – what they had gotten was an ambush. And yet all he'd thought about was her, helping her to escape with the other people they'd been evacuating through the secret passages in the mountains.

But then time started again, as it always had to, and it did so with the steady dripping of blood from Shaw's blade on her stone floor. Their father's blood, it must have been, because he was the last person they'd seen fighting Shaw. She felt sick, but nothing compared to the ill-ease that Shaw's eyes filled her with.

Suddenly soldiers were flooding into the room, their red blades matching Shaw's, and she didn't think they said anything. Or if they had, she couldn't remember it. Her ears felt like they were full of cotton and all the words were muffled, though she swore she could picture Shaw speaking to her brother. Then he was grabbing Charles by the throat or the chin—she wished her memory wasn't so unclear, like her mind was full of tears that mottled the vision—and two guards were grabbing her.

She hadn't blacked out, she knew that, but the rest of it seemed like lost time until they ended up here, separated and silenced. That had never happened before.

Charles wasn't far from her at all, the guard she was riding with stayed close to Shaw's horse at the head of their march back to Lourdes. She could see him and probably even call out to him, and that was the strangest part.

She could see and speak, if she wanted to, but Charles couldn't. Sometime after she'd been dragged from the room and all the soldier's followed, Shaw had bound Charles' eyes as well as his wrists and gagged him. She supposed her incoherent sounds of fury and fear had been the only thing to keep him placid. He certainly wouldn't have been so calm if he hadn't known that she was there and, indeed, she had seen Shaw murmur something into Charles' ear when he was first passed up onto his horse. For a second her brother had looked in her direction, as though trying to see through the blindfold, before turning forward again.

She didn't think it was disregard for her strength or cunning that had her let off so easily compared to her brother. It wasn't as though the trail to Lourdes' was a secret, either. No, it was the look in Shaw's eyes that had done it. She _knew_ that with every fiber of her being.

Charles' hadn't 'looked' in her direction again since the first time, and, despite the fact that she knew he had no reason to assume it had anything to do with her, she felt guilty. She wanted to apologize for not listening to him and cooperating. If she'd helped him move the dresser, if she hadn't been so insistent that they could save their father, then they wouldn't be there now. Then Charles wouldn't have to endure whatever those horrible eyes were planning for him.

\--------

Shaw had sent someone ahead to inquire about something, something that Charles couldn't make out when he'd been busy blindly sliding off a saddle into waiting hands. They were large hands, with fingers that easily managed to spread along his hips and hold him steady. It might have made him feel safe if it was anyone but Shaw, but the fact remained and Charles was glad when those hands left his waist, even if they did so in a languid manner.

He was guided forward by his arm, still forced into blind and muteness, with the cloth of his bonds digging sharply into his wrists. He'd been struggling with them the entire journey to Lourdes but nothing came of it except sore wrists and the aching reality that they wouldn't be free until Shaw wanted them free. He didn't think that would be an occasion to look forward to, really.

When he nearly tripped over the entryway, he heard an exasperated sigh from his right and was pulled to a stop. Suddenly the binding was gripped and his hands were being lifted over his head—no, not his head, Shaw's head—the crook of his wrists barely found a hold against the back of his neck before he was hefted off his feet. He thrashed out of instinct, his heart jumping to his throat, and Shaw warningly pinched the side of his thigh, one of his arms hooked against the back of his knees while the other braced his back.

“Behave or I'll yield to the suggestion of having you branded,” he snapped. Charles stilled despite the searing indignation at the mere idea of being treated like farmer's stock. He felt Shaw's face brush against the hair just behind his ear, a hot, moist breath teasing the flesh of his neck and igniting the bites and bruises from the past few weeks' attention. They responded like flame to oil. “Good prince.”

Charles wasn't sure if his cheeks or his temper was burning brighter.

Wherever he was, it was warm—hot, even—and he could sense that it was cramped. He heard someone shuffling around after the sound of Shaw's boots stopped thudding across the wooden floor. The dull clank of heavy metal and shifts of something like leather sounded around them followed by the sound of wood scraping wood—a chair being dragged across the floor, he guessed.

His feet were lowered to the floor slowly at first, until he caught on and then hurried to the task. Shaw's calloused, disgustingly familiar hands found his wrists again and lifted them from his shoulders, but kept them suspended in the air until he turned around in a move far too similar to the pirouettes he'd seen Raven practice in the dance halls when she was younger. When Shaw's heat was pressed to his back instead of his front, he was permitted to drop his hands again.

“I want it to lock and fit as closely as possible,” Shaw explained. Whoever they were, they weren't standing close enough for Charles to sense them. “Can you handle that?”

“Yeah, right, no taking it off without the key,” a male voice replied. He sounded bored and, perhaps, something like five feet away. Charles had a small feeling of pride at how good he'd gotten at navigating without his eyes over the past few weeks of travel and staying at inns.

“Don't test me, John. I'm still your—”

“King,” he finished. Now his voice was a tad more respectful, though it was a begrudging respect. “I know, Your Highness.”

“Then _behave_ like it.”

With no word of warning he was guided and maneuvered, nearly bumping his shin into something as he was led around it. Two hands clamped on his shoulders and pushed him down and for a moment he thought he'd hit the floor until he realized that it was a chair he'd nearly knocked himself into. In front of him “John,” he could only assume, had been migrating in their direction and now was close enough for Charles to feel. He dropped to at least a kneeling position in front of him, about eye-level, he was guessing. Shaw's grip remained tight on his shoulders.

A hand lightly touched his jaw and he jerked, but Shaw didn't miss a beat. His fingers were digging into his collarbone and the gag between his lips caught the startled sound as it slipped.

“Be still,” he growled, an echo of the earlier warning in his tone. Charles bit down on the cloth, a poor substitute for grinding his teeth.

The hand returned a second later, the touch was surprisingly soft with rough fingers, and found his chin. It guided his head forward again and this time he obliged, Shaw's fingers threatening bruises into his shoulders as a reminder to be complacent. What followed was a series of strange, disconnected touches and it wasn't until he felt the sides of his nose pinched lightly that he realized they were measurements.

But measurements for what? There were any number of torture devices situated about the head, he'd read about them in his required historical studies, but none that required such specific details. And Shaw's didn't sound like he was commissioning such a thing, though he was going off of the fact no mention of pain or suffering had been involved. They seemed like things that would come up when commissioning a torture device.

His behavior when they were alone in his inn rooms over the past few weeks also hadn't implied any intention to kill him. Unless Shaw had a tendency to molest his soon-to-be torture victims. His stomach twisted when he decided it wouldn't be that surprising.

The continuing conversation jerked him from the peculiar thoughts.

“About a week to make sure it's right,” John said. Charles felt the air in front of him shift as the stranger pulled away, only now noticing the flutter of parchment that went with him.

“That seems a bit long,” Shaw replied coolly.

“You want to be sure he can't pry it off then I need a week.”

Displeasure washed off of Shaw in waves, hitting the back of his neck and making his skin prickle to attention, but then the pain in his shoulders eased. John seemed to sense he wasn't about to lose his head.

“One key, Sir?”

“Naturally.”

“You'll have it in a week, Your Majesty.”

Shaw's only reply was to grab his arm and tug him out of the chair. Within seconds Charles felt the cool September wind against his face once again.

\--------

During his last stop, not so far from Lourdes, Shaw had sent ahead a messenger with news that he should be ready around the time of his return in something suitable for a formal affair. It wasn't unlike his king to be in a celebratory mood upon returning from a successful campaign—particularly one that had taken this long—but sending ahead a message for it was certainly strange. It implied something already planned, where Shaw usually preferred spontaneous parties and drinking upon his return.

Still, their meeting didn't yield any immediate answers. Shaw had a way of not answering things.

“Erik!”

The call drew his attention away from the book he'd been reading on the palace steps, bringing it up to Shaw's approaching form. He stood, feeling an irritating sense of relief at actually _seeing_ that his king was safe. Rumors and messages, even official reports, didn't compare to seeing the man himself.

“My liege,” he replied, but the attempt at formality was swept away by a tight arm wrapping across his shoulder. He managed a somewhat awkward return gesture, still caught off guard by the motion every time. “This must have been quite a victory, I take it?”

“The most successful yet,” Shaw replied. He stepped back and kept a grip on his arms, looking over the clothes or, perhaps, just the knight that he hadn't seen in almost six months now. “You look well. How's your wound?”

“Healed.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Shaw clapped him on the arm before turning to head up the stairs to the expansive estate. There was a quickness to his steps that Erik knew had very little to do with the fact that he was home. Shaw could never stand being home when there was territory to claim.

He wasn't entirely sure what to do however, and followed after him slowly. He couldn't imagine that his king was finished with him given the message, but that didn't mean he intended to explain it right now either, he supposed—

“Come to my chambers.” As much as Erik hated how well Shaw could read him, he knew it had saved both their lives in battle. “I'll explain there.”

And that was precisely what Shaw did as he changed from travel garb to formal clothes.

He detailed mostly the tail-end of the campaign—which, after so many battles himself, was all Erik cared to hear if it was all that pertained to him—and the defeat of Brian Xavier. The death that gave them their victory, he'd assumed, was the cause of Shaw's good mood. He was wrong.

“Naturally, I've arranged for you to marry Princess Raven,” he explained, adjusting his sleeve as though he was discussing their plans for dinner. “Consider it a thank you for your loyalty.”

An uncomfortable sort of tension borne of awkwardness squirmed its way into his stomach and back. A _bride_? He'd never pictured himself married, much less so soon (alright, well, he wasn't exactly young, but he was still too fit to settle down). The idea of leaving someone widowed had never set well with him, not after he'd seen the toll it had taken on his mother.

But, then, he couldn't very well outright _refuse_ either, could he?

“She's perfect for you,” his king continued. Erik watched him check himself over in the mirror of his en-suite bathroom. “Nearly took out three guards before we could get her set to bring back here.”

Well, Erik had to admit that did sound somewhat appealing. The women who usually took interest in him seemed to be the giggling, blushing virgin type. Not that there was anything wrong with virgins explicitly, so much as the giggling and blushing. He was never sure how to behave around someone so...delicate. Sometimes he swore looking at them was going to break them.

But the king was pressing on and he didn't have time to waste his thoughts with faint-of-heart brides.

“Unless you don't trust my judgment and intend to refuse? Is that what I should take your silence for, Erik?”

There was a danger in his voice that Erik recognized not because it was a threat but because they both knew very well when he had a corner at his back. Shaw was his king. As much as they may have acted otherwise on occasion, that was still the reality that formed the base of their entire relationship. There was servitude and respect and a healthy amount of biting down how much it annoyed him when Shaw did things like this to maintain that relationship.

“No, my Lord.” He bowed his head slightly, placing a hand over his heart. “Of course not.”

He felt Shaw observe him for a moment, as though he didn't quite believe him, before he was moving past him towards the door, now fully dressed in an ensemble of black, deep red and gold. Appropriate and yet not, Erik decided when he finally looked up.

“Excellent. Then shall we proceed?”

He didn't really have to answer that, so he didn't. He just followed Shaw out the door, not having an ounce of surprise (but perhaps a but of curiosity to _why_ ) left in him for how quickly this entire thing was taking place.

\--------

The most he knew about his bride was that she had lovely hands and that she was, unsurprisingly, shaken by the events of the past few weeks. He hadn't seen her under the veil, nor had he seen Shaw's betrothed, only Raven's hands while he held them, trying to calm her down. It didn't seem to work and he was sure the only reason she stayed so close to him through dinner was because she couldn't see the other boisterous people around her.

Erik supposed she wanted to run, but she didn't, for one reason or another. He knew Shaw's new spouse didn't because Shaw kept whoever they were in his lap the entire time, arms secured around their waist. He'd given Raven her own seat beside him, at least up until a few servants came to collect her and lead her to his suite in the castle. A quick look towards Shaw told him it was his doing.

He might've left sooner if everyone wasn't demanding his attention and giving their congratulations, or what little congratulations could be warranted from a surprise engagement and, now, matrimony. It wasn't until this moment he considered himself old-fashioned, but there was something to be said for seeing a woman before taking them as a wife.

The mixture of wine and Shaw's assurances had his spirits at least a little more uplifted by the time he retreated to his suite for the night, casting another curious glance over the person his king was keeping so close. The robes were indiscernible but the hands and posture looked male. Erik was rather surprised, given that Shaw already had a late wife to his name, but he didn't want to speculate. Gossip had never been his driving force and it wasn't going to be tonight either.

The main floor of his suite was a welcome sight, illuminated by several bright, warm flames. He almost had a second to appreciate it, too, before something was colliding with his jaw from his blind spot just behind the door.

Pain cracked through his face, but he was a knight and a life of battle left him with a certain resilience to that sort of thing, which the person who hit him didn't seem to know. They bolted behind him for the cracked open door but he caught their waist, a wave of blonde hair obscuring his vision as he spun around and tossed her to the floor. She grunted, but it wasn't the sort that implied she was going to give up, and within seconds she was back on her feet attempting to run around him.

One time an assassination attempt on Shaw had led someone into his suite instead of the king's, giving Erik a very high adrenaline rush when he returned from dinner to be attacked. This was similar, except the woman running at him now wasn't nearly so well-trained. He easily pinned her to the ground after the second try, holding her wrists to the cold stone while she thrashed.

“Get off me! Get off!” Her voice was strong but panicked, curtains of yellow blocking her face. “You're not taking me, do you understand? Get off!”

His heartbeat was thudding in his head and the forming bruise on his jaw. “Calm down!”

“I won't let you do this!”

“I'm not doing anything.”

“Yet,” she argued back, and the mere idea seemed to scare her even more. She sounded young—she _was_ young, he noted, her body couldn't have spoken to an age much over twenty years—and afraid. “I know what you're going to do.”

“Do you? Astounding, would like to tell me, then? Because I haven't got a clue,” he replied. He could feel her pulse pounding in her wrists when she stopped thrashing, fluttering like so many trapped birds beneath her skin. His stomach twisted into uncomfortable knots.

“You're going to rape me,” she whispered softly, her voice cracked.

“I'm—” He relaxed his fingers a little. “I'm not going to rape you. Why would you think—”

Then she started thrashing again and he remembered _why_ he had kept his grip on her to begin with. “Then why are you pinning me to the floor!”

“You hit me!”

“Are you going to cry about it? You're a knight, aren't you?”

He felt a surge of anger cut through him. “I'm not offended or hurt, I just wanted to remind you that it's a perfectly logical reason to—did you _chew through_ the restraints?” How had he missed the strips of torn, white cloth on her wrists?

“It was an emergency!”

“Well it isn't now,” he snapped. “I won't hurt you, but you have to calm down.”

It took her a moment but she stilled again. Her breath was coming in heavy pants and he still couldn't properly see her face, but something told him she wasn't going to lash out. Or maybe his curiosity about Shaw's new spouse was compounding his curiosity about his new bride, and he didn't care if he got hit again because he wasn't a curious man, usually, which made this ridiculous.

She flinched when he first made contact, but he hushed her. “I just want to see your face.”

She seemed to relax, at least a little, and he brushed back the thick threads of hair. The face beneath was just as young as he suspected, perhaps younger because she looked so terrified of him. He pulled both hands back, holding them up where she could see. She just looked him in the eye, uncertain.

“Raven, I take it?”

She nodded, licking her lips uncertainly. “It's...Erik, right?”

“Yes.” How amusing that they had to double check their own _spouse's_ name.

She swallowed and looked around the room, probably taking it in for the first time, before looking back at him.

“Could you get off of me?”

He quirked a brow. “Do you promise not to hit me or try to run?”

Skepticism passed in her eyes, as though she was expecting him to go back on his words, before she nodded, likely figuring that she didn't have a choice even if he did. She was a smart girl, at least, and he couldn't say she was a blushing, giggling virgin.

He got up, taking her hands and pulling her to her feet after him. She snatched them back immediately, but at least she wasn't fighting him anymore. She was rubbing at her wrists while she eyed him and he held out his hand for one.

“I can cut that off for you,” he offered. She shook her head. He sighed but let her have it. She'd want it off eventually, he figured, may as well wait it out.

She took a few steps away from him, looking around the room decorated in purple and black. Her fingers ran along one of the chairs, the white dress shifting with each slow movement. “This is yours?”

“My suite, yes.” He started to unfasten the belts of his half-cape. “The castle is King Shaw's, of course.”

She twisted around to face him, eyes wide. “My brother is here, then? In this castle?”

“So it was your brother?” It was nice to have that question answered. The proceedings had been vague enough in their addresses—likely from the King's request—that it was impossible to tell what gender was under that veil. She nodded, wringing her hands in front of her as she waited for his answer. He frowned, not wanting to lie but neither did he want to encourage her to go running about in an attempt to find him. He removed the cape, folding it over his arm, deciding she'd figure it out anyway. “Yes. I imagine he's on the floor above this one.”

“I need to—” She moved towards the door and he felt his muscles tense into action, stepping in her line. She stopped, took a step back, and the fear returned. “You said you weren't—”

“And I'm not. But you won't be seeing your brother tonight even if I did let you go looking for him,” he said. The question flashed in her eyes and he knew for sure now that she was _far_ too young and naïve for him. “The King will intend to consummate the marriage, naturally.”

“He's...” Confusion passed into denial and then to nausea. Erik dropped his cape to the floor when her hand clamped over her mouth, catching her waist and pulling her towards the en-suite bathroom. Whatever she'd eaten that day was lost in the nearest basin and Erik held her hair away, stroking her back as soothingly as he could managed only because he recalled his mother doing something similar when he was ill. He didn't know if it actually helped, and he felt more than a little bit foolish.

Maybe it was the shock, or maybe it was the naivety, but Erik felt like he was seeing a moment of incomprehensible weakness in her. She was normally stronger than this, but all the sudden the past few weeks were crashing on her young shoulders.

“Charles would never...not willingly...” But she couldn't seem to say the word she was dancing around, wiping her mouth with the back of a shaking hand.

He couldn't think of anything to say—whoever Charles was before tonight, his political, social and personal obligations were to Shaw now, whether he wanted it or not—so he didn't say anything. He just slid his hand against her trembling back until she turned around, burying her face into his chest to sob and he eased her to the ground when her legs gave out. Not since his mother had been killed had he felt so uncertain of what to do.

\--------

It was disorienting to see again; that was Charles' first thought when Shaw took off his blindfold. He'd gone through nearly two weeks now based entirely on his other senses. The only time he was permitted to see was at the various inns they had stopped in during their journey back, when he was alone with Shaw. Now that he could see where he'd been led, it seemed like that pattern would be repeating itself.

The suite laid out before him was large, to say the least of it. Three rooms branched off of the one they were standing in now, each guarded by a curtain that was swept aside and, in the light, would have offered more to see. For now they were just lingering, dark places to echo the ones forming in Charles' mind. As large as it was, he knew it was too small, unearthing a sense of claustrophobia in him that he'd never felt before. It was a luxurious prison, and one that he wasn't given much time to consider.

Without the blindfold, he was permitted to properly see Shaw, who stepped around him only after the door was locked. Small lines of tension curled through Charles' muscles, following the trail that Shaw's eyes left across him. Appreciating, considering – Charles' didn't allow his back to slouch in the slightest, kept his jaw set and stared straight ahead. He wasn't going to crumble so easily.

“No one outside of your demented kingdom will recognize this farce as a union,” he said.

Shaw stopped in front of him with a brow raised as though inquiring, arms neatly folded behind his back. “And what does that matter to you?”

Fingers dug into his palms. “When I escape, or when someone kills you, because you're a _tyrant_ and tyrants have short and turbulent rules at best, this ceremony won't matter.”

He forced himself to remain still as Shaw stepped closer, the smooth leather of his glove stroking across his cheek in a slow gesture that Charles twisted away from. A frown formed on Shaw's lips – he took a minor victory in that.

“And what makes you think that will ever happen?” He asked, tilting his head as though he was challenging someone's politics rather than implying he'd stripped him of his free will. “Better yet, what makes you think you'll _want_ to escape me?”

He almost didn't believe what he'd heard. “You killed my father and kidnapped my sister and I, not to mention just married her away like she was your property—”

“Politics,” he replied.

“It was murder. You ambushed us in our _home_ , that isn't politics. Politics is treaties and negotiations and compromise—”

“And _war_ ,” Shaw bit back, stepping closer. “And death and blood and tears.”

“Only for greedy, violent, warmongering—”

The sudden impact of Shaw's hand to his cheek was muffled by the glove, but the pain was not. It slammed into his cheek like a rock. It wouldn't swell to red or sting, just bruise, and he could feel that bruise forming under his fingertips when he moved his hand to it. For now his head was swimming, he hadn't been hit since he was a child, and that was two decades ago by now.

“That is the one and only time I will hit you in the face for making me lose my patience,” Shaw explained. Sterile and cool and so unlike the man he'd heard talking with John earlier who had gotten angry at the idea of waiting for a week. “I suggest you remember that, because I now own the rest of your body.”

He looked back at him, his face aching and the cool of his fingertips being sapped quickly by the pain. “You don't own me.”

“Our marriage arrangement would say differently. I own you, and your sister, and your entire _kingdom_ now.”

He swallowed the words but couldn't digest them. The entire past few weeks had happened in a dream, distant, black and unreal. Shaw's touches in the guarded rooms, the marks on his skin that responded to each of his terrible breaths as it rolled over them – none of that, none of this, could have possibly been real. How could it have been real if he couldn't have seen it?

He moved his fingers to his neck, palming at a bite that hadn't faded. “No. That's—”

“ _Politics._ ”

Shaw was as quick as he was impending and Charles felt fingers biting into his arm before he even saw him move. He was shoved, not guided, into the door at his back and pinned by Shaw's larger frame. He pushed, a sense of panic washing over his mind when the dizzy denial cleared. Shaw's other hand found his, prying it away from where it was gripping and shoving at his shoulder to hold it high over his head. He froze when hot air tickled his ear.

“This can be easy, my prince, or this can be difficult.” He gasped out of instinct as Shaw's hips rolled against his, pressing him against the door. “But either way, you will consummate this marriage tonight.” Another rough grind, he was pushed to his tip toes. “You will submit.” Another, he squeezed his eyes shut, each inhale pressing his chest tighter to Shaw's. “You will be _mine._ ”

The protest died on his lips when Shaw's claimed them, mouth already parted and an easy target. His tongue slid inside, tasting and taking every inch of him. It felt like he was trying to draw the air out of his lungs and suck the very heat from his body, messy and dominating. He pulled on his wrists, struggling so hard to ignore the way he couldn't move an inch without creating friction between them.

Their lips separated with a wet, heavy sound and his lungs flooded with air at the first gasp, prickling spreading in his chest and head. He'd never been kissed like that and it sparked an unwelcome heat through him, one that he didn't want to give the opportunity to persist. Shaw nuzzled his neck, breath leaving moist plains across his skin, before pulling back to look at him—that same possessive, dark look in his eyes that he'd had when they first met face-to-face.

“What will it be?”

“You don't have to do this,” he panted, mind frantic.

Shaw laughed. “No, I do. _You_ do not have to make it difficult.”

“I will not let you do with me as you please. Just...let me go, don't do this—” He grunted as Shaw's hips thrust against his, driving him higher up the door and forcing his thighs apart. He pressed his head back into the wood, arching his neck and squeezing his eyes closed. Shaw took advantage, his teeth scraping against his bobbing Adam's Apple when he spoke.

“As I've said: I will have you, one way or another.”

He was pulled from the door, both wrists now pinned to his back, and led to the bedroom, feet barely keeping up with Shaw's pace. Moonlight spilled across the bed, large enough for three, at least, and neatly made, the rest of the room save for a thin strip of floor and a speck of orange light on what he could only assume to be a bedside table was cast in darkness. Shaw didn't waste time letting him get his bearings, instead pulling him back against his chest and moving his free hand to unfasten the front of his robes.

The muscles in his jaw ached as rough fingers slid beneath the layers of material, marking his skin with foreign touches. Each inhale pressed his hand into Shaw's caress, each beat of his heart pushed their skin just a bit closer, and he could feel Shaw's erection pressing into his backside. His fingers moved back up when enough clasps were undone, brushing across the line of his collarbone in such a feather-light gesture that the cloth seemed to slip from his shoulders out of fear more than anything.

He hissed through his teeth, the cool air of the room biting across his newly exposed body like ten thousand mouths. It was enough to make him shudder, pin-pointing the spots where Shaw's warmth shielded him—his hand resting now on his hip and moving down to his leg, the scratch of his clothes against his shoulder-blades—despite the fact he'd prefer the cold.

“Will you still make this difficult?” His fingers teased the crease of his thighs, slipping between them and stroking the skin affectionately. It was only then that Charles realized he hadn't stopped shaking.

He didn't unclench his set jaw, if only because doing so would make his chattering teeth obvious. “Always.”

Shaw shoved him forward, and he nearly tripped over the pile of clothes at his feet. He was pushed high onto the bed, against the pillows, weight pinning his hips and he struggled anyway, ten times harder when he felt cloth brush against his wrists and he knew what was coming. The burst of strength that came with his fear was enough to yank one wrist free, but it didn't matter. Shaw paid little attention to his desperate attempts to shove him off, enduring whatever pain he caused with a few grunts and sheer focus. When his attention left one wrist he immediately pulled on it, forgetting that it was bound, and let out a frustrated grunt because this _couldn't be happening_.

Soon both arms were strung above his head and, though he could move them separately, he could not move them far. Shaw slid off his hips, between his legs, and it wasn't anger or cold that was making him shiver anymore.

“Don't do this,” he pleaded, because he didn't have anything else to do. The restraints, soft from what he could tell, still bit into his skin when he pulled on them, arching his back and trying anything to get away. His face flushed at the spectacle he must have been making of himself, naked and squirming, but fear lingered on the edge of his mind. “Please, don't. You don't have to do this, you can be better than this.”

“I thought I was a greedy, violent, warmongering tyrant?”

And his voice was so aloof and unaffected that Charles felt a helpless sound leave his throat because even if Shaw had the capability in him to be better than this, he _was never going to use it._

Nothing happened at first, not to him, but there was the sound and feel and slight shift of shadow across Shaw's form above him that said he was undressing. Charles felt his muscles burn with the dissipation of adrenaline and the onset of resignation. He pressed his head back into the pillows, closed his eyes as tight as he could and sank his teeth into his lower lip. He didn't realize the movements had stopped until Shaw's thumb was tracing his lip and he released it out of shock.

“Open your eyes, Charles.”

His pride screamed at him not to, to choose death and Shaw's rage over this, but his mind was on self-preservation. Raven was somewhere in this place and he'd never see her again or be able to protect her if he didn't pick his battles with the utmost care. _Even then_ a cynical part of his mind argued back You'll never win.

Shaw was right in the stream of silver across the bed, illuminated and defined by ghostly light and shadows. He was well muscled and sleek, as battle-ready as any knight or soldier, with lines of dark hair merging into the abyss surrounding his eyes. A set jaw, firm and carved by the pale glow, while the other half of him was nothing but ambiguous black. His stomach twisted into tight knots and Shaw smirked as though he could sense it.

“I'm not so repulsive, am I?” He asked, his hands sinking the bed on either side of him. He could feel Shaw's erection press to his hip and clenched his fists.

“Worse.”

Once again he was silenced, Shaw's tongue ravaging his mouth hard enough to bruise as his lips were crushed. Their teeth clicked together, muffled by the wet siege and Shaw tilted his head just enough to keep their jaws locked. The cramped, hot space left no room to breathe, no room to avoid the onslaught, and Shaw twisted and pulled and sucked on his tongue sending flares through his body. Fingers curled around his thighs when he attempted to squeeze them shut, prying them apart and Shaw swallowed the sound that came as he thrust down into his hips, grinding against his groin.

A steady pace picked up, rocking him higher onto the bed with each jarring motion. The friction of his hips and the moist burn of their mouths forced his cock to attention. His cheeks fevered and his head was swimming by the time Shaw pulled back, dropping kisses and bites across his neck and shoulders. Puffs of air hit his skin and he shuddered again, tilting his head against his arm.

Shaw's hand found his cock when he sat back and he choked in surprise, the restraints digging hard into his wrists when he jerked. His strokes were light but rough, thumbing the head and its underside in a way that made his hips squirm involuntarily. “Mmm, seems like you're ready to move on.”

He wanted to ask but his mouth was numb from the kiss, his mind burning, so he just watched as Shaw leaned forward to pick up one of the pillows beside his head. For a moment his hand stopped lavishing his erection and Charles felt his hips lifted, the pillow stuffed under them, and he was set back down. His spread legs and the new angle did nothing but give the facade of invitation. A small trickle of panic started in the back of his mind as he watched Shaw reach over to the small, orange glow he'd forgotten about. He thought he vaguely saw something glistening on his fingers when they passed through the moonlight but they soon disappeared between his legs.

The second he felt the oil—warmed by the flame beneath it and not by Shaw's fingers alone—press against his entrance he knew what it was. The small trickle turned to a burst dam.

“No!” He bucked his hips and jerked on his restraints, starting to pull away even if he really had nowhere to go. Shaw's placating thumb on his erection wasn't nearly enough to calm him, and he soon felt his fingers grabbing thigh again, pulling him down the few inches he'd crawled away. “Please, no, _no_.”

“Relax,” Shaw replied, and his voice was probably supposed to be soothing but Charles could not fathom being soothed. Shaw fingers were massaging a fine coat of oil against him and he almost missed the way he was moving his leg, pressing his knee up towards his chest and forcing him wider. “It'll be much easier if you relax.”

“I don't want to relax! God. _Stop_!” His head fell back against the pillows, tears burning behind his eyes and stinging his throat. Shaw had touched him during the journey back, he'd teased and molested, but he'd never done this. And yet he knew he should have seen this coming. _How had he not seen this coming?_

“I'm not going to stop.” Blunt and honest and what was the point in fighting if there was no humanity in Shaw to be appealed to? “So, relax.”

“I won't,” he choked, except he also couldn't. No part of him wanted to allow this.

“You can and you will.” There was a little more danger to his voice now. “Or you will tear and I'll tell you right now that you will heal, and because you will heal I _do not care_ if I tear you.”

With anyone else he would have called their bluff, because he strongly believed that no individual human could have been capable of this level of cruelty. Not without driving forces or pressure or something behind it to push them to such an extreme. But Shaw had proven already that he was not an individual human, he was shadows and ruin and cold, calculating want. He was known as the Black King for a reason.

He pressed his eyes shut as he sucked in a trembling breath and let it out. Shaw's fingers hadn't stopped moving, like a hungry animal waiting for its meal, but he hadn't entered yet. For the life of him, his body would not stop shaking, but he pushed it to relax. This was happening, this would hurt, and he couldn't stop it, but he could make it easier for himself. It was the best he could do.

“Good, my love,” Shaw encouraged, and Charles felt his thumb start to stroke calming lines against his pinned thigh. He swallowed, cinched his jaw, and turned his face into his arm again.

For a brief second Shaw's fingers left just to return with a little more oil slicking them and no warning was given before one slid in with unsettling ease. He arched his back and clenched on the intrusion instinctively, but that just solidified its presence inside of him, made it hurt. The digit started to move in impatience, curling against the walls of muscle before he properly relaxed and forcing him to do so despite it. He pushed himself to ease, all the while humiliation seared the back of his mind and his face burned against his arm.

A pattern started when he relaxed, Shaw's finger sliding out, never completely, before pressing back in. He wished there was any other sound in the room besides the greasy ' _schlick_ ' of his body being violated. Even his heartbeat seemed to quiet in his ears so he could hear it, and when one finger became two it got even louder. They twisted inside of him, feeling along the sensitive walls as though trying to memorize him. When they spread apart they stretched him, sending an ache through each nerve that he couldn't ignore. Everything was worse when two became three.

Shaw's fingers left his thigh, positioning his legs so they were still wide open, and found his cock again. He picked up his light-but-rough strokes, thumbing his head and slit in time with the fingers pumping in and out of him. Blood and heat rushed to his revived erection, swelling into Shaw's skilled hand despite the fact that a trapped part of him was screaming for this all to stop. He had no control, every nerve sang for Shaw's abuse, called for the thrust of his fingers as far inside him as they could go and hummed for each swipe of his thumb across the tip of his cock.

The bed shifted beneath him and Shaw's slicked fingers smeared oil against his thigh when he found it. His knee was pushed up towards his chest again, the other leg still bent with his toes curled into the duvet, before he felt the blunt pressure of Shaw's dick against his entrance. Before he had time to tense he was screaming, Shaw taking him in one powerful, filling jerk of his hips. Violent shivers ran rampant through his entire body, arched and pulling as hard on his binds as he could. It stretched and burned and _filled_ in a way that the fingers didn't compare to.

Shaw didn't move above him, staying seated deep inside as his lips brushed against his neck and jaw and he murmured things that were quiet and Charles couldn't quite understand them because his world was spinning and nothing made any sense beyond the thing penetrating him. He could feel Shaw's pulse through his cock, pressed so tight inside of him that he wished it hurt Shaw just as much as it was hurting him. It didn't, of course, if Shaw's heavy pants of 'so tight,' punctuated by pleased grunts and 'perfect,' were any indication.

Somehow he relaxed enough for Shaw to move, and he took full advantage. His thrusts were slow and deep, marked by the wet sound of lubrication and skin hitting skin. His thigh burned from being stretched, but there was no part of him that didn't burn anymore. Shaw had been thumbing his cock all through the pain, muddling the agony with the pleasure of being touched and teased in areas sensitive and neglected. He didn't know which parts of him were aching for what reasons.

The thrusts got quicker and harder, riding him up the bed again and he craned his neck back into the pillow, panting and gasping as his inner walls were stuffed, stretched, and defiled. Shaw hit something inside of him that made him cry out in alarm at first because he swore against logic that he was going to explode, but he didn't. Lightning zapped through his veins and the only reason he didn't come was because Shaw was gripping his cock so hard that it hurt.

He squirmed and writhed, yanking on his binds, so lost in whatever this convoluted mess of sensations was that he didn't realize until his orgasm was smashing into him that he'd been saying 'please, please, please' under his breath. Shaw's fingers had relaxed just enough that the next deep thrust to hit that spot sent him over with no chance of looking back. He came with Shaw rammed inside of him, his traitor of a body practically pulling him deeper and within minutes he was flooded with the new sensation of liquid fire as Shaw's come coated his insides.

And alongside the feeling, hidden behind the haze, were his dignity and pride banging against the cage inside his mind.


	2. Chapter 2

Raven woke up alone the next morning in Erik's bed, her head sore and the blankets warm. There was no sign that anyone had slept next to her, though she remembered Erik sitting beside her while she fell asleep. She felt a flush of embarrassment at the way she behaved, but it was chased away by panic and regret. How could she feel embarrassed when Charles had been enduring God-knew-what last night?

She slipped out of bed, the floor cold against her feet, and padded towards the main suite. Erik was stretched out on the couch, book in his lap, when she pushed aside the curtains. Like a true soldier—she was fairly certain that's what she'd heard at the wedding—he caught her movement immediately and glanced towards her.

“Good morning,” he said, looking back to his book. He looked like he'd been awake for at least a few hours, already dressed and wearing boots.

She wrung her hands, wondering in passing if he'd seen her brother. “Can I see Charles now?”

Erik's words last night had made her realize what that look in Shaw's eyes had been. It wasn't fascination or cruelty—at least not so conventionally—it was something possibly more powerful than that. Something that could mask sadism and attempt, but fail, to excuse it. Something she'd seen in the eyes of so many lovers around Westchester, but never the way she'd seen it in Shaw's eyes. Never so powerful, and never so dark.

She was worried about Charles, about what being alone with those eyes meant.

“No.”

The response was blunt. She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting.

“Why not?”

“Because no one is allowed to see him,” Erik replied, turning the page of his book. “Not for a week, at least.”

Her stomach plummeted into her feet, but the same wave of nausea didn't hit her the way it did last night. Now she was just angry at this stupidity. “A week? I've already been away from him the entire journey here!”

“And what is your point?”

“He's my _brother_ and your tyrant is a _brute_.”

She felt a tension hit the air and promptly reminded herself that, despite Erik's kindness, he was still one of Shaw's lackeys. In fact, he was Shaw's _top_ lackey, his right-hand. There was virtually no rumor of battle that had him separated from Shaw's side.

He looked at her. It shouldn't have made her spine stiffen but his eyes were hard. “Watch your tongue.”

She clenched her hands at her side, just staring at him with reproach. As determined as she was not to look away, she felt herself buckling under Erik's grey-green gaze—endless and threatening. _But not dark,_ she noted as she looked away. _Not like..._

“Besides, is your brother a weak, helpless thing who can't take care of himself?” Erik's voice wasn't merciless but the words were intended to stab and she knew it. Her hands ached as they clenched even tighter. “Because if that's the case, then the King certainly did you a favor if someone so weak was next in line to rule.”

She bristled. “How dare you? That isn't what I meant.”

“Do you have marriages in Westchester?”

The question knocked her brain on its side. “What?”

She watched him unfold from his position, setting his feet firmly on the floor and looking at her with a critical sort of consideration. She'd seen her brother looked at that way by their father's advisers, but never had it been turned on her. A feeling of such scrutiny and contemplation, like every twitch was a test.

“You're not stupid or deaf, Raven.”

No one had ever spoken to her like that before, and she couldn't tell if the audacity or the expectations themselves were more shocking. “I...yes. Yes, of course we do.”

He stood up and he was suddenly intimidating not because she thought he was going to hurt her but because of something else. Something she couldn't place.

“And when you or your brother got married, did you think that the rest of your lives would be spent as close as you once were as children?”

She opened her mouth to reply, but Erik's eyes were unrelenting stones. His voice told her she wasn't stupid again without him even needing to move his lips. The next inhale hurt a little bit less than the one that followed, until her eyes were swimming. This was _not_ what she wanted to wake up to this morning. She wanted her brother, to know that he was safe and that whatever Shaw had done to him last night hadn't ruined him. Charles might not have been weak but that didn't mean he deserved to suffer either.

She wiped at her eyes, but it only seemed to make the stinging worse. “You're heartless.”

“And you're stronger than you pretend to be.” His voice was suddenly closer, but softer because of it. His large hands settled on her shoulders, slid down her arms. She was against his chest again, more of her own accord than his, and it was strange but familiar in a way she'd only heard soldiers speak of before. A kinship formed only because there was no way to survive without it and no time to spend leisurely developing friendships. She wanted Charles, but she couldn't have him, and that was the reality.

“I miss him,” she confessed.

“I know.” A few moments of silence lingered until she felt that same uncertain tension creep up Erik's back again. He sighed, seeming disappointed. “I was hoping this morning would be a bit more pleasant, honestly.”

“How could you expect such a thing when you had to have known we didn't want this?” She supposed she should have been angry, but she wasn't. She couldn't be, not when Erik was at least trying and she was certain it was more than her brother had gotten. Her fingers curled into his tunic, her voice felt weak again. “He....” She still couldn't make herself say the word.

“I'm certain it isn't that simple.” His voice was gruff, and it was like he wasn't telling her something, but she didn't think she wanted to ask. She didn't think she could. She needed Charles to tell her that it was okay, that they'd be fine, but she hadn't heard his voice in almost three weeks now, not once.

She kept her face pressed to Erik's chest for a moment longer. “What did you have in mind?”

They stepped away from each other and she cleared the last of the tears away from her face. She had to be stronger than this—just one week, Erik said, and she'd see him again. It would be fine, even if it was only for a little bit. She'd know he was all right.

“Well, for starters, you're not staying here,” he said. “I'm only enduring one night on that couch and that was it.”

Something twisted in her stomach. “I'm still your wife, you can't just kick me out!”

He smirked a little bit, she caught the roll of his eyes as he turned. His hand and the flat surface of his book pressed between her shoulder-blades while he guided her towards the door. It was oddly reassuring.

“Who said anything about kicking you out?”

She sniffed a bit, trying to relax and smile. She had to just be okay for now. There wasn't anything she could do for Charles, not then, at least. But there would be something eventually, and, when she figured that out, she would get them both out of here.

But, for now, she had to at least try to get Erik to trust her. He could be useful, and he seemed nice enough.

\--------

What Erik did not tell her was the only thing he could really do to protect her.

She didn't need to know that she'd passed out before her brother's scream—and it was most certainly his—had smashed through the cracked-open window of his suite. That, just as he'd been moving to the couch for the night, an awful sound of irreplaceable innocence being stripped away had made it difficult to find sleep.

Erik wasn't sure he needed to know it either.

\--------

The first thing to drift on the edges of his consciousness was pain, the sort of pain that he tried very hard to ignore by going back to sleep, but it persisted just as hard as he did. His behind and lower back were aching something terrible and even the attempt to roll over hurt, making him gasp and dig his fingers into the sheets before it settled. _Sheets._ He twitched his fingers and arms in a test, finding them free. But he'd definitely fallen asleep with them bound last night, the bruises from weeks of restraints were stinging faintly.

Sunlight was flooding into the room from the same window that had previously poured moonlight, the area now illuminated enough that he could blink open his eyes and stood a chance of properly seeing. It took the brightness a moment to clear, but before it did he felt the bed beside him shift.

“So, you're awake.” Shaw's voice was clear and alert, implying that he'd been awake for hours. Just tilting his head to the side found him stretched out beside him, propped up on an elbow and watching. Charles tried to move out of instinct, legs stiff and sticky from the night before. The memory burned the second it hit him. “How do you feel? Sore, I'd imagine.”

“Disgusting.” He pushed himself up.

Shaw chuckled. “Of course.” He felt Shaw's hand brush against his leg under the sheet and jerked away, trying to find the bump in the duvet that signaled where it was only to feel his fingers pressing at his sore entrance a second later. He lashed out to shove it away but Shaw was quicker, pushing inside of him and something warm leaked out of the stretched muscle and – _oh Christ_ – he felt sick.

“Oh god.” It could have been blood, it easily could have been blood. He wasn't sure what made him feel more ill, the fact that he was bleeding or where, exactly, he was bleeding from—and _why_.

“You've been leaking all night,” Shaw murmured. Charles didn't pay attention to his movements, too busy trying to get his finger out of him even as it started to work the muscles in an entirely too familiar fashion. He shuddered, nauseous, digging his fingers uselessly into Shaw's arm as he tried to push it away.

“Stop,” he hissed, the word barely audible.

“Just come and oil, no blood. You relaxed so nicely for me—”

There was a brief, tentative second where he was thrilled he wasn't bleeding, but it passed as Shaw persisted.

“ _Stop!_ ” He gasped when a second finger started to push at the muscle. Shaw's whisper at his ear made him wish he'd thought to hit him, but years of pacifism didn't yield so quickly to thoughts of violence.

“Why?”

He ground his teeth together, still pushing at his arm. “It hurts.”

The movement of warmth signaled Shaw sliding down his neck, Charles could feel him smirking as he pressed an open-mouth kissed to his pulse. “My dear prince, you don't handle pain very well at all, do you?”

The second digit pressed in and the hiccuped sound seemed to suffice as an answer.

“Don't worry,” he soothed, his fingers now pumping slowly in and out. It hurt at first, worse than the first time, but then his fingers started to slick with the remnants of last night still seeping from inside of him. Teeth nipped at his pulse. “So long as you behave, I'll ease you into it.”

“I don't—not again...” It had only been a few hours, barely that, and his entire body was still sore. How could Shaw expect him not to tear? He hadn't even had a chance to recover! “I—I'll tear.”

“You'll only get used to it with persistence, my love.”

Just as the third finger started to press against him there was a distant knock from the main suite's door. Shaw froze, like a child caught with something they ought not to have, before he sighed. Charles relaxed his shoulders when the fingers slipped free and Shaw got out of bed, clearly annoyed as he pulled on his discarded trousers from the night before.

“Stay in bed.”

The curtain was dropped closed behind him when he left the bedroom and he eased himself back against the pillows, pulling the blankets up higher despite the fact that they didn't offer much protection. Not when it was Shaw's bed, when he'd already been violating him beneath the sheets that morning. He tried not to think about it, or the wet spot on the bed he could now feel against his thigh when he rolled over. He didn't want to think about anything.

Shaw's order to stay in bed seemed almost redundant, considering he knew without trying that he would collapse if he got up. He couldn't even sit without hurting, and getting out of bed without being able to find a way of escaping was going to pointlessly make Shaw angry with him. It was far more logical not to move, even if he was strongly considering trying to throw himself out of the window.

 _Raven,_ he reminded himself. He needed to make sure that she was safe before he went throwing himself out any windows. She could take care of herself, he was certain of it, but that didn't mean he didn't need to see her.

Shaw returned too quickly and far too pleased to imply that whatever had been waiting for him at the door was going to draw his attention away. Charles listened as he stepped up beside him on the bed, blinking open his eyes again in the sunlight as he teased his fingers down his cheek. He wanted to jerk away, but more powerful than that was not wanting to move at all.

“As reluctant as I am to allow you to leave our marriage bed so soon, I could have a bath prepared,” he said, and it sounded so different from the tone he'd used the night before. There was care in it, almost light, as though any part of this had been consensual. As though he hadn't made him scream and listened to him beg the night before. Then he smirked, and that overpowering lust was there again. It fit. “You'll be back in it soon enough.”

The touches continued along his cheek, delicate and contrasting the darkness on Shaw's face, but Charles knew he'd rather have touches to his cheek than anywhere else they could have been. “Are you going to keep me in this bed for the rest of my life?”

“No, but neither will I let you go free.”

“This room, then?”

Shaw laughed and he wasn't sure what made it so terrible to hear. “No. Not always, at least.”

He couldn't keep him contained to the castle. Even if he hadn't seen it, he knew that it was much too big for him to be guarded at all moments. A guard could certainly follow him, he supposed, but even the threat of being touched last night had Shaw snapping at people. He didn't want anyone getting close to him, so why would he trust a guard? As loathe as he was to admit it, Shaw wasn't stupid enough to think that he could possibly want to be here of his own accord even with time.

“There are more creative ways of keeping you here,” Shaw explained, his fingers combing back through his hair. “Until I make you understand that it's where you belong. You'll settle eventually.”

“Never.”

He smiled, horrible and knowing, like there was some future for him that he couldn't see but Shaw could and he had known all along. Their lips met but he was frozen by that smile.

“You won't have a choice,” he whispered.

\--------

He hadn't gotten permission directly from the King (as in, through their usual face-to-face) for giving Raven a separate room. Shaw had specifically said that he didn't want to be interrupted for the next week following the marriage, and Erik had no option but to respect that.

Unfortunately, it also didn't change the fact that he needed somewhere for Raven to stay and his own residence was in the castle.

The first day as husband and wife was spent shopping for a wardrobe. She couldn't very well stay in her wedding gown for the rest of her life, after all, and Erik didn't intend to have her dressed in rags either. She'd surprised him with the simple designs and plain colors with light accents. Most women he'd vaguely courted in the past had always favored the extravagant. He didn't mind indulging them, at least for a time.

She'd been timid over the past few days despite his vague attempts to make her comfortable. He honestly didn't know what to do, given that their presence in each other's lives had been nothing short of sprung on each other. She was young, out of her element, and ceaselessly spoke of her brother. Perhaps the one thing he couldn't give her, and it was the one thing in the world that seemed capable of getting her to relax. Only in the past few hours had she stopped flinching when he tried to touch her, usually just gentle guiding motions.

It was a blessing on the fourth day, when Shaw's allowance for her to have her own suite came. His body was stiff from the couch in his sitting room, and though she'd offered to take it on multiple occasions he refused. She was...well, he didn't really know, but important enough to be allotted his bed for a few nights while things were sorted.

Raven's new rooms were smaller than his, with just a bedroom and a bathroom branched off of the sitting chamber. He sat on the couch as she explored, for once having no comments. Servants were carrying her new wardrobe in from his room, arms laden with two or more dresses at a time.

“It's nice.”

She was standing in the doorway then, barefoot with the hem of a green dress brushing the tops of her feet. She'd stopped looking at him like he was a monster, but there was a wariness in her eyes. Only four days since their wedding night—he wasn't expecting everything to be better. It would have been nice, though.

“Thank you,” she continued when he didn't reply.

“You're welcome.” He wasn't used to being thanked, or smiled at in such a soft way. Her presence threw him entirely out of his element, which was a small part of the reason for having her moved out of his room.

He stood up, drawing the glance of a red-headed servant before the young man disappeared past Raven and into the room, two dresses over his arm. “I'll leave you to make it your own, then.”

He turned towards the door.

“Where's yours, again?”

He paused, craning his head towards, but not looking at, her. “Down the hall to your right, the last door on the left.”

A pause.

“This is bigger than my room in Westchester,” she murmured. “Our castle was small, I...I liked it more. Everything's too big here.”

He looked at the floor and frowned. _Damn._ She wanted him to do or say something, but he didn't know what that something _was_.

“Westchester was a small kingdom, wasn't it?”

She drew in a breath behind him—surprised, maybe? He wasn't sure what he was doing, so it was certainly appropriate.

“Yes, it is.” She spoke slowly. “It's lovely. You've never seen it?”

“No.”

He wasn't sure why her questions made his muscles ache, but then she laughed a little and it was chilling. He pinpointed it as sardonic, or maybe hollow. “I realized who you were after we went to town, you know.”

His fingers slowly curled into fists at his sides.

“We'd never heard the Black Knight's name before.”

His shoulders gravitated towards his ears without his consent. It was not the first time he'd heard the nickname, but somehow he hadn't expected it to reach so far East.

“I suppose I should be honored to be your bride then.” Her voice had gotten a touch more brave, and mocking, which he could only chalk up to the fact that he'd been silent. It would have been a welcome challenge on almost _any_ other subject.

 _She's just a child,_ he reminded himself.

“Shouldn't I?”

He took a deep breath through his nose and exhaled it, slowly. It really didn't help his temper. “It's just a nickname—”

“And the rumors?” She interrupted.

His jaw ached with tension. He could have just left, that's what he told himself. He had the option and she had no right to demand anything of him, no explanation or reasoning.

“I'll see you at dinner, my lady.” Sharp. She was quiet for a moment, a long moment, and he could sense questions buzzing about in her mind. His standing there was like waiting for an enemy to recover from a daze.

He didn't make it this long in his life by standing around waiting for enemies to take another shot at him.


	3. Chapter 3

In the days that followed he didn't leave Shaw's suite. There were a select few times that he had left the bed, in fact, and those were usually just to bathe and eat. He did nothing without Shaw at his side, and the one time he had slid out of bed without him had not ended well. His legs were unsteady and his body unused to the abuse it had to bare—he'd barely managed to get to the bathroom before his legs gave.

Shaw had been furious. After that—which must have been five days after the first night—he'd started being tied to the bed if Shaw had to step out. Always the same strips of white cloth, tied just so that he could never pick the knots loose. Sitting up wasn't worth the struggle and throbs of ache through his backside; Shaw always came back before he could do anything that made sitting up crucial.

There must've been only three nights in the entire week when Shaw hadn't taken him beneath the sheets, protest and reason ignored. Even then, not a single day or night had passed without his touch somewhere. He tried not to think about it, but he had select few options outside of sleeping and thinking anymore. He tried to pull up thoughts of Raven, of her smile and complaints about their studies—generally anything of her before they'd ended up here.

 _Be safe_ he thought, wrapping everything he could around the words. He knew she'd been married off as well, but Shaw had been taciturn about any details. He rarely said anything of consequence, as it was, his words often cryptic or dark in a way Charles couldn't understand. Or maybe he just wasn't bothering.

That was the thought that hovered on the edges of his mind when Shaw returned, the distant sound of the door opening in the main room. He shifted a bit, unintentionally tugging on the binds as he tried to encourage the blanket up the bit it had fallen, but it stayed resting across his hips. Incidentally, he wasn't allowed _clothes_ either.

He stopped when Shaw stepped into the room.

“Comfortable?” The bed sank with the weight at his side. He squirmed a little when Shaw's broad touch caressed his stomach, contrasting the chill. He rolled his wrist, the closest thing he had knocking the hand away.

“Should I be?” He pulled on the cloth despite knowing the tyrant needed no reminder. Shaw's all-too-pleased expression was proof enough of that.

“Maybe not,” he replied idly. “But you should be in a better mood, my prince. You're getting a gift today.”

That did not bode well.

Shaw's thumb stroked over his navel, placid. He was never placid. This entire week had been a blur of satiating his endless and licentious needs. Charles spent every minute he'd been there pushed back and forth between having his body violated and trying to claw the imprints of it from his mind. And yet...

Here Shaw was being soft and subtly excited. It reminded him of that terrible smile he'd seen that first morning with him—Shaw knew something that he didn't.

“Your eyes look unsettled,” Shaw murmured.

“What is it?” Formality be damned.

Shaw hummed, mischievous— _Dear god_ —as he leaned forward. “Now, now. That would ruin the fun.”

Their lips met, unnervingly gentle still, and Shaw held his chin steady. The slow slip of tongue past his lips was far from consensual, Shaw lazily reclaiming the mouth he'd fought the past week for, but Charles' mind had blanched. A gift could have meant anything, and, from Shaw, it was certain to be something he didn't want.

The warmth pulled back, touched again, and withdrew completely. Every brush of Shaw's fingers across his cheek was disconcerting, but when he pulled back it didn't help. It didn't even help that Shaw started to untie him.

 _Bad, bad, bad._ His mind thrust the word at him uselessly. Like there was anything he could damn well _do_ about it.

“Get dressed and wait here for me.” It was the only time he'd ever been told to get dressed.

Shaw left, though Charles doubted sincerely that it had anything to do with preserving his modesty. The curtain swayed shut behind him and he didn't move for a few moments. He rested his arms over his stomach, massaging his fingers against his sore wrist. The thought occurred to wait until Shaw came back to push him along, but given Shaw's idea of _pushing_ —he shuddered. No. Best to just go along with it.

He had a small section of robes made available in one of Shaw's wardrobes. They were nondescript and unfitted but extravagant in design and pattern. He imagined the intention was to make him look appropriate at Shaw's side, even to make people envious of the Black King, but not to disclose anything about the person beneath. “ _Look at me, want me, but don't see me,_ ” – that was they said to him.

He slipped on a black one, the sleeves large enough and long enough to nearly cover his fingers. A pattern of blue accented where it folded over his chest and the silver of each clasp. He hadn't been measured, so the best he could surmise was that one of Shaw's disappearances in the past week had been for the express purpose of guessing at what robes would adequately hide him. His stomach knotted at the mere idea of Shaw flitting about _attending_ to him and leaving him _tied to a bed_ as he did it, no less.

Ill-concealed heat burned through his mind when he had to limp back to the bed and make an express point of lowering himself onto it. Dull pain jolted through his lower back, but gradually it eased. As loathe as he was to admit it, he was getting used to this particular brand of agony. It had subsided by the time Shaw stepped back in to the room. He looked even more agog.

“Close your eyes.” Thankful for small miracles, Shaw didn't sound quite like a thrilled child when he said it. He hesitated anyway, Shaw watching him steadily. There was a flash of danger in his expression, just a glimpse, but enough that he obliged. “Excellent.”

Shaw took his hand, guiding him far enough from the bed that he could pick him up. Charles' eyes opened out of instinct, reaching for purchase on Shaw's shoulders.

“Eyes, Charles.” The use of his name seemed a threat in-and-of itself.

“Why?” _Ah_ there was the defiance, a bit late to the party but attending all the same. He wouldn't let Shaw dominate his life any more than he already was, it reminded him.

“Because I've told you to close them,” he replied. Then, with a dangerous sort of immaturity: “And it'll ruin the surprise.”

“What if I don't want it?”

Shaw laughed. Not uproariously, but not his usual, deep chuckle either. A laugh—an unsettling one at that.

Charles narrowed his eyes, fingers tighten in Shaw's shirt. When their eyes met again Shaw was still smiling; his eyes were glittering.

“It is the one and only way I will allow you to be with your sister again.”

His insides ached abruptly. It couldn't have been that simple—Shaw was too pleased for it to be so easy—he wouldn't have just allowed him to see Raven again. But he missed her. Terribly. After all this time—it didn't make sense—but, then, what choice did he have?

He swallowed and closed his eyes.

“Very good. Keep them closed this time.”

He didn't have to promise, Shaw was too eager for that. The curtain brushed over his legs as they passed through the arch and he tried to follow Shaw's movements through the suite, but it was hard to focus through the nerves. Obnoxious, really, because he'd never had a problem with focusing _before_.

He was glad to be set down gently, able to collect himself as Shaw attended to something next to him.

“Keep your hands in your lap.” _Like I want your absurd surprise,_ Charles bit back, but remained silent. He followed the sounds of clicks and metal tinkering as they trailed behind Shaw's words. He flexed his fingers in the robe covering his legs.

He forced himself not to flinch away when something pressed against his eyes. It was smooth, not exactly soft, but certainly some sort of material— _Velvet?_ —and he felt a slight additional pressure against his temple. _A hinge_ , he realized, when another piece pressed against the back of his head. Then it ' _clicked_ ,' a comparatively small thing beside Shaw stepping away from him, but it defined what followed.

The measurements from a week ago— _I want it to lock – One key – One week_ —invited themselves on his mind. One week.

“You can move.”

He really hadn't been waiting for permission, but Shaw's statement alerted him to the fact he could move. He had the option, at least.

He reached up, trying to remove it and to quell his growing panic at the same time, but there was a sense of hopelessness even before he touched the metal. His fingers slipped against the folds of material along the edges, sliding over the cool surface uselessly. There wasn't enough room to wedge his fingers under it—it was virtually _conformed_ to his head. A little broader along the back, cradling the base of his skull, combined with the way it had been fit to his nose made it impossible to push up _or_ down. It applied the slightest pressure, making his skin tingle— _I'm here_ it seemed to say. _Even if you can't see me._

A chill went through him, head to foot.

“Take it off.” His voice shook, just slightly, and he naturally turned in Shaw's direction, expecting to see him, but finding only blackness. The metal cage didn't just blind him, it _held his eyes closed_. He couldn't open them, not without serious effort that likely would have resulted in getting his eyelashes and lids caught against the cloth. Even the grain of the velvet seemed to encourage them shut.

“That wouldn't be wise.” He jumped. Shaw was behind him; he hadn't even heard him move. “You have to get used to it, after all.”

Now that chill was hardening in his stomach and threatening to come back up as a block of icy dread. “What? You can't—”

“You'll realize very soon that there's very little I can't do.” He sounded too pleased, too cool. “In fact, I'm surprised you haven't realized that yet. You're smarter than this, certainly—”

“You're _blinding me._ ” His voice was softer than he meant it to be. He hadn't lowered his fingers from the metal—he couldn't, they were stuck to the cold surface.

“Not quite.” Shaw touched his hands, gripping them tighter when he flinched away. He forced him backwards, leaning back to chest, and pinned his wrists in the process. It seemed so superficial. “You'll wear it outside of this room and whenever I'm not with you.”

“Why?” He tugged on his wrists, despair rattling at his nerves like chains. “Why are you _doing_ this to me?”

Warmth that could only come from skin-to-skin contact fluttered near his neck. He turned his head away and cursed when Shaw invited himself to his throat. An open kiss sealed over a fading bruise from that same mouth.

“Because you're mine.”

Shaw pulled him harder against his chest, as if he predicted the struggle that followed. Charles didn't care. He nearly flipped himself off the chair trying to get away. And though each movement drove home the pain in his back, nothing lifted the darkness, nothing dislodged the horrible mask form his eyes—he could feel his temples throbbing against the metal by the time he stopped. His breathing was heaving. Shaw kissed his neck again, lips parted and tongue hot. Charles' air was strangled in his throat; he knew it had nothing to do with his thrashing.

“Now then,” he purred. “There are a few other rules we need to discuss...”

\--------

“I will s- _ah_!” The sweet outcry of jarring pleasure was almost as welcome as the words themselves. Charles' body shuddered and clamped hard against his cock, already buried to the hilt in his heat. He kissed the trembling calf propped against his shoulder.

He probably didn't need to restrain him, after a week Charles seemed to have learned his place in bed, at the very least. But it was impossible to resist seeing that body stretched across the mattress, arms strung above his head and lying on his side. He looked wonderfully vulnerable, tugging helplessly on his wrists as his body thrummed with such obvious desire. He tried to deny it, but that didn't change the way his erection throbbed against Shaw's palm, struggling towards release.

A whimper drew Shaw back to the present and the fact there was a matter to be attended to. He squeezed Charles' cock, smirking at the slight jerk of his hips when he ran his thumb against the underside. His prince was so very sensitive still, his body never treated properly before. Now it wouldn't know gratification higher than release at his hands.

“Finish it, you're only on the second rule.”

“S-sit at the vanity and wait to...” His rasping voice trailed off again, and, this time, he was fairly sure it had nothing to do with the debauchery. He withdrew from the sweet pull of Charles' body and snapped his hips forward again, relishing the hiccup that followed. “ _Ah!_ —to be let out of my mask and stripped.”

He eased his grip a little, stroking him as the rhythm settled again. The succulent hold of his lover's walls trembled around his cock, Charles' calf tensing against his shoulder. He smirked— _Probably his toes curling_. He remembered the warm flush that spread across Charles' cheeks when he'd first pointed the habit out.

“I will not speak to—” A grunt, that soft face burning brighter and sending a throb of hunger through his gut. “But—anyone but y-you.”

“Very good,” he purred, nipping at Charles' leg. Sharp hips bucked into his grip, so willing and bestial that he found himself biting a little harder than he intended in order to maintain his focus. He could barely keep his attention on the thrust of his hips, his body aching to drive into that heat as hard and deep as his lover's body would take him.

“No one is permitted to touch me but you.”

The metal glinted in the afternoon sun as Charles turned his face against his arm. His voice was heavy, laced with intoxication and need. It cracked along the edges, wanton.

“Please.” Charles groaned, tried to hide it, but his body had been saying it all along. Each slap of skin that accented every slick thrust made him shudder and keen for more. His prince's initial resistance was no more than a sad little game by now.

He kept his rhythm. “Please what?”

He thrust hard when an answer wasn't forthcoming, Charles yelped and canted. He bent his leg a little more, trying to tug Shaw deeper. He was so tight despite the past week, just the right amount of time had passed between now and the last time he'd found himself buried inside. Muscles still clenched out of instinct, gripping him and _sucking_ so marvelously. He groaned against Charles' leg.

“Tell me I can...”

His modesty was endearing, really. It was like he thought there was some part of him that wasn't pleading to be taken like this. “Can what, my prince? You have to be specific—”

“Come!” He cried, pulling in vain on the cloth. Shaw's lips pulled into a smirk at the struggle, the jerk of his hips, the spreading fissures of want in his voice. “Tell me I can come.”

He'd honestly forgotten his little threat, feeling a spark of indignation at the ruined illusion. Ah, well, he'd have Charles thrilled to recite those rules soon.

“Not yet,” he pressed his lips to the moist, red mark he'd left behind on his calf. “You've forgotten one.”

He pinched the head of Charles' erection as a punishment, hand already wet with precome. The sound that followed, combined with the delicious clench of his hot inner walls, was enough to send Shaw over. Whatever sound followed as Charles' reaction was distant as he spilled into the constricted hole. The taunt body beneath his arched beautifully for him, the ridges of Charles' spine smoothing under a wave of fair skin.

He watched Charles squirm under him, a breathless sound puffing past his red lips. The poor prince couldn't find the air to vocalize so he shook his head, a challenging task when lying against his arm and a pillow.

“You've still got one more.” His voice scratched the inside of his throat, mind buzzing with afterglow.

Silence. An unpleasant chord of defiance in it.

He rolled his eyes, the blur of afterglow being the only thing to dampen his annoyance. “Why do you insist on fighting me when you know you will give in?”

He pulled out, earning another soft sound—his prince was so _magnificently_ vocal—that dulled the sharp chill that followed. Feeling an itch against the back of his neck and between his thighs for more, he pressed his fingers to the spent entrance. Charles struggled to stay silent, the effort visible as his face contorted and he held his breath, body still quaking. It was a wonder that he kept resisting, like it would have made any difference in the end.

“The sooner you stop fighting, the easier this will be.” And it was very, _very_ true. Not that he didn't admire some level of resistance, of course, it made the conquest more exciting, but this was different. He wanted Charles to yield—he needed this lovely little prince to be his, completely.

“The sooner I stop...the sooner you'll think you've won,” Charles growled out through gritted teeth, he felt a chord pull in his gut at the resilience. An unpleasant, broken note blaring through his pleasant haze to the point of near pain.

“I've already won.”

He thrust three fingers into the tight cavity, earning a much more favorable sound over the cacophony of his nerves. He almost wished he could see Charles' eyes, but there was something satisfying about the mask. The slight hitches in Charles' body, the way he seemed to be struggling to get it off by nudging into his arm. Just knowing that he couldn't see – helpless – so sweet and malleable.

“Say it.” He stretched his fingers, a rush of come flooding out. Charles trembled, trying to curl away. He could almost taste the crumbling resolve, the delicious whimper that followed it.

A pause, long enough that he started to withdraw with his fingers still spread.

“I belong to you,” he choked. “I'm...yours. Alone.”

“Mmm.” The jolting note of distaste resonated a true, melodic tune again at his submission. He leaned down to nip at Charles' tender inner thigh. “Come for me, my prince.”

And with a broken sob, he did.

\--------

There was precious little time to gather himself between assaults—the hours seemed to stretch on for ages. It wasn't enough to make him say the rules, Shaw needed a more solid gratification than that, contorting and bending his body to use any part of him available—hands, mouth, thighs—not a single stretch of his skin was safe. When his ass was too plundered to handle it again, Shaw moved onto some other part. Everything felt detached and terrible under the mask, like it wasn't happening, and yet the evidence was burning holes into his skin.

Charles felt himself slipping, distantly aware that he was panting into the pillow and far more aware that he was slick with sweat, oil and come. His mind was unfeeling with shock, revulsion, and it became far too easy to lose himself along the way. Far too tempting, really, to just let his mind crack and fragment into so many useless, untouchable pieces.

Shaw was stretched on the bed beside him, a sticky line of perspiration marking his presence even when Charles had his turned head away. He'd become this inescapable shadow over the past week, the hours dragging like a farmer's plough through morning, afternoon and night—always touching, tasting, sucking, biting, penetrating. His body endured things his mind couldn't have thought up, things his eyes couldn't see despite some distant awareness of them. He'd been friends with soldiers in Westchester, after all, and people far more experienced than he was in such things.

The thought of his home made his chest ache, and it was the first wave of pain to truly pierce the veil of denial that had laid over this entire situation. He remembered the small castle, his room decorated in a swaths of blue cloth, the drapes catching on his desk annoyingly, scattering papers and books to the floor with their weight. His thoughts drifted through the halls, to Raven's room, small and bursting with colors—she'd never had a true favorite, always changing—before he moved on. The library, which had become more of a personal study over the years. The books stacked high near the small couch, fairy-tales for Raven mixed in with his more serious pursuits. He moved on.

The conference room he hated—the throne room where he'd watch his father hear the plights of their people and do his best to amend it—the kitchen, where he and Raven would sneak for treats—the stables and Arthur, his bay courser—what had happened to him? Had he been killed? Put into Shaw's stables now? The latter would have been more likely, with any other conquest, but with Shaw's penchant for bloodshed he just didn't know.

He swallowed, eyes burning and now— _now_ —he felt the tears breaching the wall he'd set for them. Thinking of Arthur, his bloody _horse_. It was laughable, except that nothing was funny about any of this.

Shaw's hand, rough and warm, slid down his back. His fingertips danced over the ridges of his spine, dipping through the sticky warmth that had pooled in his back, and up to where the blankets were resting just at the top of his behind. Charles twitched, the touch light enough to tickle, and it further bruised his already sore wrists. He turned his face into the pillow despite how his breath was still coming in huffs. Every one made him aware of the wet spot, soaked through with his own semen, that he was lying in.

Two fingers trailed back up, smearing a line of congealing come up his spine, between his shoulder-blades. They continued on, to his neck, but the wetness had run out. He shuddered. Shaw chuckled, the sound as black and sweet as poisoned molasses.

Moments like these were the closest things he had to a reprieve, and they really only counted because Shaw was too tired to do anything further with him. His thoughts were still muddled, unable to retain any useful strand, so he had no option but to let them wander until a sobering touch crept across his skin like a bug, or slithered like a worm.

“You seem distracted, my prince.” Shaw murmured, suddenly close to his ear. Charles couldn't remember the bed shifting and he flinched, fingers curling into his palms uselessly. The digits trailed over his back, dipping again into the puddle in the curve of his back to trail streaks across his skin—claiming him like territory.

His teeth hurt as they bit into one another, jaw aching. Shaw's hand slid lower, below the blankets, but the cloth fell away at the smallest prompting. He sucked in a breath through his teeth, biting down an indignant sound when Shaw's fingers squeezed into the tender curve of his behind.

Teeth sank into his arm, hard enough to earn a surprised yelp before he could stop it. He felt Shaw smirk around the mark, now sucking a fresh red splotch into the skin. His fingers continued kneading at his ass, reminding him how sore it was without much call for being reminded.

“I'm not.” He bit back, the words were said mostly to the mattress, but he didn't doubt Shaw heard them. There was no point in lifting his eyes from where they were pressed into the pillow. The velvet was hot against his eyelids, reminding him of its presence. I'm here.

Another hard bite, though not as hard as the first, dug into the same shallow holes left prior. He was already covered in marks, it was hard to be shamed by another. Shaw half-hummed, half-growled a pleased sound before he shifted, tearing apart the line of their bodies and to Charles it quite felt like the veil he'd been wrapped in was being savagely shredded. His mind flared with pin-points of clarity that he tried to latch onto.

For a second, a terrible second, he thought that Shaw would start again, but the illusory shape of his panic barely had time to form before it was dashed. Shaw straddled his exhausted legs, yes, but he wasn't erect from what Charles could feel. He just loomed over him, the bed sinking on one side where the weight was braced on one hand, before leaning down to kiss his back and shoulders. Shaw avoided where the come was starting to dry and glue to his skin. Charles didn't know why his nerves clung to the sensation, trailing where the lips landed.

Shaw's hand started stroking along his side, like Charles was a horse he was trying to soothe, and he didn't know why. His realizations had become so sluggish that he didn't notice until a second after the fact that his shoulders were trembling slightly and now the velvet pressed flush to his eyes was damp as well. Shaw exhaled caring hushes against his back, from shoulder all the way down to the liquid that had started seeping over his sides.

Affectionate. The sadist was being _affectionate_ with him. It wasn't the first time. He'd done it over the past week, adding a jarring staccato of love and adoration between ruthless thrusts and blue bruises. Perhaps that was what made his reactions so slow, he mused, because he was uncertain of whether each action towards him was born of lust or of the smitten depths that Shaw had apparently found himself in. His mind didn't have the energy to expend in wasting precious terror or revulsion—or relief.

Shaw eventually stopped. Charles felt the moist spot shift against his stomach with the transference of his weight. The other's body, now cooled, tucked against his side and tugged the blanket up to where it had been. He felt Shaw twine his fingers through his hair and he murmured something against the forming bruise on his arm, something that Charles didn't care to follow.

A few moments later Shaw was asleep, or at least very still, leaving him awake, covered in streaks of his branding semen and lying in a perpetually cool wet spot of his own spent erection. And, oddly enough, it was then that Charles slowly started to think of the changes he had to make if he was going to survive this.

\--------

Erik told her early that morning that Charles and Shaw would be at breakfast with them. It had been the longest week of her life without him there, so she had no trouble rushing the two of them down to the dining room. The entire way, Erik was saying things that she only half listened to.

This meant, at least, that Charles was alive. She refused to believe for a moment that Shaw was doing anything to keep her brother safe or well cared for, but he wasn't dead and that meant something. She could talk to him, make sure that he was okay. If he was willing to let them eat together, then hopefully it meant the past week had been a precursor to a more lenient existence here. Shaw couldn't, honestly, keep them apart forever. That would have been ridiculous.

Her hope was silenced when Erik grabbed her arm and spun her around only a few steps from the dining hall.

“Erik?”

“What have I been saying?”

She frowned, trying to remember, but Erik didn't care to wait. His fingers fell away from her arms so he could straighten to his full height again. He crossed his arms and Raven thought he was trying to look imposing. The illusion was somewhat ruined by the fact that he'd been kind enough to hold her hair for her when she'd been sick.

“You can't speak to him.”

She couldn't have possibly heard that right. “What?”

“We can't speak around him. You need to write it down. The King will—”

“You've got to be mad,” she replied once the disbelief dissipated. Erik's face remained impassive and she clenched her fists, waiting for the joke to set in. It didn't. “He's my brother!”

“He's the King's.” She didn't know what overcame her face, but it made something hard flash in his eyes. Fine. She could play that game just as well.

“I'm not playing this stupid game of his.”

Without a word she pushed into the dining room, Erik's fingers grazing her arm but missing the grab.

Shaw was already sitting at the head of the table, Charles beside him. At first she only saw the robes that masked his usually distinguished frame. It wasn't until she got closer, having drawn Shaw's attention by now, that she saw why Charles hadn't noticed her sooner, why he hadn't called out her name in relief and run to her.

“Oh no,” she whispered. “Ch-mmph!”

Erik's hand covered her mouth from behind, his other arm wrapping around her waist. She struggled despite the hiss of _Stop_ in her ear. Now they drew Charles' attention, the light leaking into the room glinted off the polished silver covering his eyes. He murmured a soft, puzzled “Raven?” and it very nearly broke her heart.

“Enough,” Erik snapped and she half-collapsed against him as she covered her eyes. His arms loosened and she twisted to press her muffled sound into his chest. She wanted to scream but she couldn't, more for Charles' sake than anyone else. If he couldn't see, what would he think was happening to her? The touch of Erik's hand against her back didn't help. “Shh. It's alright.”

“Maybe you should take your lady outside until she's calmed,” The King ground out and she twisted around before Erik could stop her.

“Monster!” Then his hand was covering her mouth again and tugging her towards the door.

“And, Erik?”

She felt him still against her back at Shaw's voice.

“Do remind her that this is an act of kindness on my part that I even let her see him.”

He didn't relax. “Yes, my liege.”

Over her shoulder she saw that the King was gripping her brother's wrist, snapping at him under his breath. Then they were in the hallway again and Erik had pulled her all the way to the stairs before releasing her.

“A _kindness_!”

“Your brother still has his eyesight,” Erik's voice was blunt. It was always blunt, but there was something about his tone that caught her off guard. He sounded hurried, like he was rushing to give her the news despite the fact that her mind was flying in every direction but that one.

But Erik's voice seemed to cut straight to the heart of the matter, the reality of her panic. Some part of her swelled with relief, replacing the terror that Shaw had permanently blinded him. She couldn't fathom words, but Erik could.

“It's just a blindfold that locks,” he explained, holding her upper arms. “He's not truly blind.”

She swallowed, not realizing her jaw was slack until she started speaking. Her voice sounded quiet even to her, and she didn't know if Erik would hear it. “Why? Why would he _do_ this?”

Her heart sank when Erik shook his head.

“I don't know. All I know is what he's told me,” he confessed. To his credit, he sounded sorry. But what did that really matter when he was so keen to remind her of both their places? Erik held fast to the fact her brother was just Shaw's _property_ now, so his comforts were far less than he would have them seem. “You cannot speak to each other directly. No one's allowed to touch him.”

“Then what's the point?” She regretted it a second later. Erik's expression didn't exactly soften, but it was like he was looking at her differently.

“You don't mean that.” And just like that, he knew she didn't. He knew before she said anything, leaving her just to nod numbly before hugging him, feeling the ripples of awkward tension before he hugged back. Every time, like it was a mechanism in his mind that he couldn't control. “You'll see him at least once a day, more likely twice, and know that he's safe.”

“Alive,” she replied. “He'll never be safe as long as he's with that barbarian.”

“Bite your tongue,” Erik growled. He flipped like a switch and she always forgot in these moments the rumors that chased him through battle and across plains just the same as they chased Shaw's name. “He's still my King.”

“And yet you seemed to be reassuring yourself as much as me that he hadn't blinded my brother.” She narrowed her eyes and Erik's fingers dug into her arms, but he didn't deny it. She leaned closer, moving her hand to his chest. There was something in his eyes, something she swore she'd seen before. That sense that he wasn't telling her something rose in her and forced out words along the way. “You aren't like him, Erik, why do you swear your allegiances to—”

But the words were silenced when the sound of a fight came from the dining room. She heard a solid “No!” and her stomach was pulled into a grip of ice.

“Charles!”

She ripped herself free of Erik's hold—or maybe he had let go—to rush back to the dining hall. By the time she got there, Erik on her heels, a servant was righting a tipped chair while another picked up spilled food.

“No...”

Shaw and Charles were gone.

\--------

Shaw's threat had not been an idle one, and although he attempted to power through his two-day forced fast, he had never gone more than a few hours without a meal, let alone forty-eight of them. At first it was just the normal hunger pains, but it gradually progressed to nausea and then an unpleasant clenching, pinching acknowledgment of the fact that his stomach was empty.

The first night had been it hard to sleep, in part because of the hunger and in part because he hadn't been forced to exhaustion, leaving him very aware of the way Shaw held him close in bed, as though he was going to wander off. The second night had everything to do with the hunger as the pain subsided for a few hours but then, just as he was dozing, would lurch and stab his insides. A headache formed in the back of his mind, spreading with agonizing slowness to the front until, by afternoon the next day, it was a migraine.

He was lying on the bed when Shaw returned to the suite, aching from last night's abuse and now with a headache that refused to ease. He was massaging light touches into his stomach, hoping desperately that it would ease the pain but, if the last hour was any indication, it wouldn't. He followed Shaw's footsteps across the room, his presence gradually getting closer until it was right beside him. A warm hand pressed over his and the gesture could almost be mistaken for concern.

“You look like you've learned your lesson,” he said. The hand moved away and warmth teased his cheeks, Shaw's thumb created a slight pressure as it ran over the velvet lining of the blindfold. “Are you ready to behave, my prince?”

The demeaning little nickname made his stomach clench, reminding him with a sharp throb that it was still empty and how much he abhorred headaches. No pain in the world was like a headache, threatening him with nausea, but he had nothing in him to throw up. He nodded lightly and hated the way the air molded with Shaw's smile.

“Good. Come on, then.”

He sat up and Shaw helped him from the bed, walking him back to the main suite. Halfway across the room he knew where they were going and he flinched when he took his seat at the vanity, a jolt of pain shooting up his spine from the treatment the night before, but it was a pain the week was getting him used to. Shaw drifted away and back and he tilted his head forward without being guided, waiting for the pressure to be completely gone before he opened his eyes again.

The vanity didn't have any mirrors so much as it was a desk with the box for his mask sitting on it as well as an ornate brush. Charles almost wished it had one so he could get a sense of if he looked as abysmally as he felt, but, with further consideration, he was glad he didn't have the option.

He watched Shaw put the blindfold in the box and affix the latch before his hands went to his shoulders and cascaded down to the front of his robes. His lips found one of the bruises left on his neck as the first clasp slipped loose and Charles' head throbbed in resistance to the growing revulsion.

“I'm only going to offer this once,” he explained. Two clasps undone and he was pulling back. “Stand up.”

Charles stood, clenching his jaw as his pulse pounded a little bit harder against his temples and Shaw's fingers trailed over his shoulders. The robe fell away, crumpling to the floor about his feet and Shaw's fingertips trailed down his back. He shuddered, trying his best to keep it from reaching his head. Something seemed off about this, and it wasn't until Shaw was tying his wrists behind his back that he started to really question it.

He groaned, more from the headache than anything. “Is this really necessary?”

Shaw didn't say anything. At least, nothing to answer his question. “Are you ill?”

He tensed, unsettled by how easily Shaw seemed to sense that. “Hungry, that's all it is.” He didn't want to confess his pain. Shaw had already proven that mercy and pity were not his defining attributes.

He was led over to the couch but turned before he could sit on it, standing in front of Shaw, he forced his attention up despite the fact it wanted to linger somewhere on the floor. “On your knees.”

He ground his teeth together, the hair along the back of his neck standing on edge. “I refuse.”

“I was almost hoping you would say that.” Shaw's smirk made the words seem pointless. One hand dug into his shoulder while the other gripped his hair, making the pain a blaze of white-hot light across his mind. For a few seconds he was blinded by it, but Shaw kept talking. “Here's my offer: you do as I tell you and I'll feed you. If you refuse, you'll go another two days until I'll offer again.”

“I'll take my chances, then.”

“Will you?” Shaw's hand slid up to his neck, thumb trailing over his Adam's Apple, a deviousness in his eyes that only ever came from knowing he had the upper hand. “Will you take the chance that I won't be called off to a month, or two month, or six month campaign? You're not used to this sort of endurance—and how would your sister feel knowing her brother starved to death? After all, I refuse to let anyone else feed you.”

He knew already that Shaw's kingdom was turbulent at best, his studies in Westchester had taught him that. Only the off months—through the winter—were even close to a guarantee that a rebellion wouldn't break out or that he wouldn't get bored and greedy again. He didn't have to ask if Shaw was capable of such a thing, of leaving him to starve to death if that should happen.

He dropped slowly to his knees, flexing his fingers as the cold sent tremors up his bare skin.

Shaw stroked his hair, guiding it back away from his face and it soothed some of the pain while making the rest of him fever with hate.

“Wise choice, my prince.”

Shaw sat on the couch in front of him, leaning back and looking—no, _admiring_ , Charles realized bitterly—him and all his vulnerability for a few moments before he was beckoned closer. Charles moved, still trembling, as Shaw unfastened his trousers and freed the half-hard results of the passed altercation. Fingers wove back through his hair, gripping and distracting from the headache but not from the humiliation lighting his cheeks.

“I'm sure you're smart enough to know not to bite,” he murmured, free arm stretched across the back of the couch. “But I want to see your eyes while you do this. You've got such lovely eyes.”

And he wished it was mocking, but it wasn't. Shaw's sick infatuation was what had him here, on his knees between his legs, with nothing but shame and resentment twitching on the edge of his nerves. A quick, threatening tug to his hair was his only order to start.

He watched Shaw's smirk widen at the first, testing swipe of his tongue against the head of his cock, but the fingers stayed tight until he parted his lips and took him into his mouth. Then Shaw's head fell back and he groaned, forcing him down on his erection until it was threatening the back of his throat and he nearly choked, jagged stabs of pain bouncing back through his skull. But his fingers relaxed and Charles withdrew as far as he dare, until he just had the head between his lips, and then he slid back down, slower this time.

Shaw's eyes found him again soon enough, a new layer of shame blossoming across his skin at the appraisal in them. He tried to ignore it as he bobbed along the solid flesh, feeling his lips swell at the friction, but he had no where else he was permitted to look.

“Use your tongue.” He swallowed, inadvertently sucking lightly and Shaw's fingers gripped a bit harder in his hair, eyes not leaving his. He teased the underside of his dick with his tongue as he moved from base to tip, swiping it daringly over the slit where small droplets of precome were already threatening his pallet.

Any attempt at looking away or closing his eyes was met with a yank on his hair. He obliged each grunted command of 'yes' or 'suck harder' when it came, his tongue ruined by the tyrant's taste. Trails of saliva leaked from the edge of his mouth as Shaw's cock swelled to full hardness between his bruised lips, certain that pulling away to wipe the tracks off would be reprimanded harshly. He swirled and encircled his tongue around him, pressing his lips tighter and then relaxing them, all the while Shaw watched, enthralled, thinking things that made Charles' blood boil in his veins even without hearing them.

Shaw's back arched seconds before he came and suddenly fingers were forcing him to the back of his throat again. His head ached, his heart pounding his temples like pulses of defiance that he couldn't react to. He struggled against his restraints, closing his eyes just to have Shaw bark “Open them!” in a rarely used tone of mixed lust and ferocity. He did, tears stinging the edges of his vision as the softer, but still dangerous, command to swallow followed it. There was manic pleasure in Shaw's eyes when he obeyed.

Lines of saliva were replaced with lines of ejaculate as he struggled to choke down the bitter spurts. His stomach twisted with renewed nausea as something finally filled it, knowing it wasn't food but too starved to care. He was shaking—when had he started?—as Shaw withdrew and fixed himself up. A content smile tugged at his features, pride in his eyes, and he ran his thumb up the trails on his chin, clearing them away, and then pushing it past his lips.

“Suck.”

He did, clearing away the last few drops from Shaw's thumb with numb obedience. It slipped free of his lips a second later with a soft, wet sound and Shaw stood up, walking around him.

“Stay there.”

He went to the bathroom, and Charles thought he heard a few muffled words at the servant's door but his mind was buzzing with pain and shock. Shaw's reemergence into the room drew his attention, carrying a tray of actual food and not—Charles pushed the thought out of his head as fast as he could and closed the door behind it.

He wasn't cut free of his restraints and he wasn't permitted to stand as Shaw fed him. It was a mix of cheeses and fruits and some sort of salted meat that didn't cut through the bitter taste on his tongue but settled his stomach well enough. He was given water to drink and Shaw's thumb stroked its usual, distantly affectionate line along his jaw while he chewed and swallowed. He wasn't permitted to eat as much as he wanted, but he didn't complain.

“You'll get sick,” Shaw said, by way of reasoning. Charles hadn't asked, too focused on the glass of water carefully balanced against his lower lip, Shaw let him finish it. His thumb brushed away the lingering moisture from his bottom lip while his fingers curled under his jaw, making their eyes meet again. “You're going to listen now so you can eat around others, yes?”

Charles nodded, remembering Raven's voice in the dining hall and how worried she'd sounded. He missed her, and if meals were the closest he could ever be to her again then he'd behave. He'd sit in Shaw's lap and abide by his ridiculous rules just to know she was safe in the same room with him.

“Excellent.” His skin bristled at the fingers stroking back through his hair. “Are you certain you aren't ill?”

“No,” he murmured, because the pain was bordering on excruciating now. Against his best judgment he tilted his head against Shaw's hand—his skull felt so heavy—just for reprieve. “My head...”

Shaw didn't say he should have mentioned it sooner, that he wouldn't have made him go through all that if he'd known, because he didn't pretend to be better than he was when they were alone. Why should he? Charles closed his eyes as lips pressed to his forehead, fingers flexing uselessly in his restraints.

Then Shaw picked him up from the floor and folded him against his chest. There was nothing he could do with his hands bound behind him so he tilted his head against his shoulder, his temples still throbbing, distantly acknowledging that Shaw was also pleasantly warm against his cheek.

Either Shaw knew the pain was bad or was still pleased with him, Charles didn't much care which it was, because he was put in the bed and tucked beneath the blankets without quarrel. His wrists were cut loose a second later and Shaw slipped into bed with him a second later, naked but calm. Charles didn't care, just thankful for the chance to sleep without hunger nagging at his stomach—even if he had to do so with his head against Shaw's chest.

\--------

As a grown man and a knight, it was almost painful to admit that it was a relief to get away from Raven, but she had been making everything very difficult—first the question of rumors, then the arguments floating about her brother and the King. It was getting to be insufferable. He understood her worries and concerns—particularly now that they hadn't seen Charles in two days—but only in the most abstract of senses. Shaw was his King, and if he felt the need to put Charles in such a blindfold then it was his prerogative and no one else, least of all him, were within their rights to question it. The King had done nothing outside of this to warrant such scrutiny, at least not in all the years that Erik had known him.

She was making the adjustment more difficult than she had to.

Still, he felt the twinges of an unwelcome guilt over it. Raven was his responsibility and he'd truly done what he could to take care of her, but she went out of her way to be unbearable. They had yet to find even the slightest common ground while her thoughts were wrapped up with her brother. Erik had met prisoners of war who were more cooperative than her.

In the wake of realizing this, he felt justified in leaving his spousal duties—he had to fight not to snort—derelict. He needed some time to himself, to sort out this absolute mess his life had become.

A gray, arid day seemed to trail after him, chasing his heels with cold wind and biting reminders of the approaching winter season. Stones crunched under his boots as he found the stables, a long hallway lined with box stalls, most of which contained horses. With the wind blocked off by the solid walls, he took his cloak off before entering the stall of his destrier. The stallion didn't need the click of his tongue to start navigating towards him, but he did anyway.

Tristan pressed the space between his eyes against Erik's presented palm before nudging at him properly. Erik pulled the half-carrot stick from the pouch on his hip, digging his fingers into the horse's favored spot behind his ears while he ate. When it was gone Tristan nudged at him for more, but Erik just slid the flat of his hand along his neck as he walked further into the stall. The marble-gray horse shifted, snorting.

He'd been left behind during the last campaign, same as Erik had. No matter how dire the need—and rarely was that need ever dire—no one rode Tristan. Tristan was his. Perhaps one of the very few things that was his at its very core.

The stallion was fiercely protective in a way only creatures in stories were. Erik didn't know what he'd done to garner such an allegiance from him, but he didn't do anything to discourage it. Without him, Tristan very well may have been dead, and the horse had returned the favor in kind more than once on the battlefield. Sometimes he thought they shared an endless luck between them, for both of them to leave so many wars alive.

He pulled shafts of hay out of the trimmed mane, letting them fall back to the floor, and ran his hands over the hot muscle—checking. The white-metallic coat twitched under his touch, probably just being reminded of what a proper touch felt like. All the stable workers were about as wary of Tristan as they were of Erik. He touched over his legs, lifting his hooves to make certain they were clean, before he patted him softly on the haunches. Tristan craned his neck in a slow arc to look at him, a sort of restlessness in his eyes that seemed to ask ' _Did you come here just to pat me on the behind?_ '

Within the half-hour he had him brushed and tacked; he'd replaced his cloak and led him outside the stables, onto the gravel pathway. Erik swung himself up into the saddle without touching the stirrup, a feat of practice and necessity. Tristan danced excitedly beneath him now that he was outside again, tasting fresh air and free from the confines of boredom. A quick pat on the shoulder to calm him and they started at a steady walk—it wouldn't do to have him hurt himself from a lack of warm-up.

While they were walking in circles, Erik thought he caught a glimpse of something in the windows lining the castle. It was out of instinct and _not_ curiosity that he craned his neck to look again. Nothing. He frowned—had it been from his suite window or Shaw's? They were only one floor apart...

He only had a minute to consider the consort he'd barely glimpsed two days ago before Tristan was tossing his head. He was antsy and Erik had a destination in mind, so by the time his fingers had adjusted to the chilly air, Tristan was ready for the trek to the edges of the surrounding city. They broke off into a steady canter.


	4. Chapter 4

Erik wasn't terribly surprised with Raven's threats of an outburst if her brother wasn't at breakfast that morning. She was worried and had no clue how to go about handling that diplomatically—he'd never been good with diplomacy either, really—but that didn't make it less obnoxious. He couldn't be mad though, she'd pointed out, when he wasn't willing to help her.

“He's my King,” he growled. “I'm not about to challenge him for _your_ right to _his_ consort.”

“You're my husband!”

“By law and ceremony, yes, but I feel no overwhelming obligation to commit treason on your behalf.”

It wasn't the first time she had tried such an excuse, and he was getting tired of it. She stopped in their walk to the small dining hall, but he refused to yield to her tantrum. It was only when he found himself at the end of the hall without her that he stopped with a sigh.

“You don't even know my brother.” Her voice was so soft that he almost wondered if he'd heard it at all. If he was meant to hear it.

“Does he rely as heavily on others as you do?” He turned around and found her looking at him. Even with the distance between them he could see the shock on her face, the hurt. _Good,_ he thought, even as something constricted tight in his chest. He forced himself stalwart. “If he does, then I'm still inclined to believe this union will be the best thing to happen to him.”

Shaw was dominating, he knew, and forced a backbone where one ought to be. If the years under his tutelage had taught him anything it was that weakness was best left behind.

Raven remained still for a moment, her eyes wet in the morning light. Then her face hardened and she came forward, seeming like she would hit him, just to walk by instead. A few seconds of pause coiled around his limbs before he twisted after her. Something—maybe pride, maybe regret—seized him. He felt grounded walking behind her while she was caught in a blaze of such strength.

Just as quickly was it stolen away by the sight waiting for them. That thread of warmth in him dissolved when his eyes found Shaw at the head of the table: Charles, indiscriminate in deep red robes, was sitting on the King's lap. The metal of his mask had a dull gleam in the light, head tilted slightly downward. _Subdued_ the word came unbidden to his mind. There was a smooth flicker of motion, his chin lifting, and Erik knew they'd been heard. It unsettled him for a reason he could not place. He looked to Raven.

All the previous prowess had been sucked from her, leaving her pale and startled as she had been on their wedding night. Her shoulders trembled and he felt that she couldn't look away, so he touched her arm in a trance of his own. She startled at it, looked at him, and it was...nothing. She wasn't seeing him. She nodded, and he didn't think either of them knew why.

They moved to their seats, him taking up the chair to the King's immediate right and Raven beside him. For a moment they both were caught in the silent actions that transpired before them—the King lifted a grape to Charles lips and, at the lightest touch, they parted to take it.

“Good morning,” Shaw said. For the first time he tore his eyes away from his consort and Erik couldn't help but feel that Shaw had been watching them all along.. He gave a nod in response, turning his attention to the food laid out on the table. The scream he'd heard over a week ago now sparked through his mind with enough ferocity to initiate a headache. Had the calm man on his King's lap really been the one to make such a sound?

It wasn't an easy thought to avert, try as he might, for his mind latched onto the idea that looking at the consort for long enough might yield some concrete answer for him. Thankfully, the King seemed absorbed in leaning near Charles' ear, which the consort inclined his head to assist with, to whisper some message. A flicker of a smile appeared on his—surprisingly red, for a man—lips. It disappeared before Shaw could pull back to see it.

He managed to force his attention back to his food this time, too aware of how easy it would now be for his King to see him watching. Still, for whatever reason, he knew the course of the movements to his left. Charles leaning in to whisper something in return, forbidden to speak aloud. Erik found himself somewhat curious as to what his voice sounded like at all.

“Your says 'Good morning,'” Shaw said. Erik popped a piece of torn bread into his mouth, stifling down the absurdity of the entire thing. Already he could tell this was going to get old. “He would like you to be sure to eat, as well.”

Beside him, Raven seemed displeased but sated. She turned her attention to the food in front of her. Almost every monitoring glance Erik sent her way showed that she was still fixed on Charles. The King went back to attending to him out of the edge of Erik's vision. He wasn't sure what was so fascinating about the display, but he found it twisting his gut in an indescribable way. He only lifted his eyes fully when he saw the King lift his cup, taking a sip out of it before setting it to Charles' lower lip.

For the first time, Charles' hands left his lap, and Erik saw the minute twitch of reaction in the King, as though he was going to pull back. Just by laying his fingers over Shaw's did he manage to ease him, not trying to take control, Erik realized, just steadying. Erik followed the King's dark eyes as they fell to the stretch of neck that was visible when Charles tipped his head back to drink. When he realized what he was doing he turned back to his food again.

“I hope Erik has been making your week pleasant,” he said after a moment, setting the cup back on the table. It was so very much like him to ignore the tension in the room, despite the fact he knew Shaw had to be aware of it.

Erik caught Raven's nod out of the edge of his vision, her attention far more enveloped in the food she had transferred to her plate. It wasn't much—an apple, a piece of bread and some cheese—but at least she seemed willing to do what her brother had asked of her. He was thankful for that, because even in the short time he'd known her he had taken notice of a gauntness to her face.

“He's moved you into your own suite, hasn't he?”

Another nod. Erik kept a firm grasp on his hunger, of all things, and tried to pretend he didn't know Shaw was going to ask him why he'd done that.

“I never was given a reason for that.” Interested, damn. “Erik?”

He shrugged, wondering if there was any way he could make a point that he didn't have paper to explain himself on without saying anything.

Shaw smiled a bit, watched, then his attention drifted away. “It doesn't bother me, of course, I was just curious.”

He nodded, feeling some tension ease from his shoulders. If Shaw didn't care, then he wouldn't feel the need to bring it up again in the future. Good. But he made a mental note to be sure they brought paper and ink to meals now. The rule was stupid, but he wasn't going to cross his King over it.

“Particularly since I'm having the hardest time keeping myself away from Charles.” Never in his life had he heard his King _purr_. He couldn't say he wanted to hear it again. Ever.

Beside him Raven dropped her fork at the words, or possibly the sound, and startled herself. He reached out, working on half-instinct to calm her. She put her face in her hands for a moment, murmuring quiet apologies before taking a sip of water.

Shaw remained absorbed in Charles for the rest of the meal and it got easier to focus on his own food as the silence spread. Time still seemed to drag before Shaw excused himself and Charles, the latter's arms sliding up around his shoulders and Shaw picked him up. No sooner had the sound of his footsteps disappeared than Raven was grabbing his arm.

“He has legs,” she snapped under her breath. “What is his _problem?_ ”

He finished the last of the water in his cup, effectively knocking her hand away. “That's none of my concern, or yours.”

“Right, of course, how could I forget that you're But-He's-My -Infallible-King-Erik?”

He stood up without thinking about it, the inquietude from the meal riding his shoulders and his previous frustrations with their argument having no time to settle. She squeaked when he grabbed her chair, turning it around with her in it, and his hands clamped on the armrests. He leaned over her, not relishing the fear in her eyes but, at the very least, pleased that she seemed to have some grasp on the gravity that she'd incurred.

“Yes,” he hissed. “He _is_ my King. And no amount of your complaining, crying or bickering will change it _or_ your brother's situation.”

“I—”

“ _You_ are causing me a lot of grief for a lot of good that I am attempting to do by you, my lady. I am uncertain where this patience of mine is coming from, but of this I can assure you – if you continue testing me then it will run out shortly.”

Without another word he pulled back, turned, and left her to sob or curse or throw a tantrum. He really didn't care which.

\--------

It was one of the precious few days he had been able to get out of bed without pain or help. As time wore on, one week dripping into two, Shaw started to have matters to attend to outside of their suite. It had become a routine that picked up steadily since their first proper breakfast with Raven and whomever it was she'd been married off to. Shaw woke him early when he had a meeting, locked the blindfold on and left him with encouragement to sleep. He rarely did, just lying awake until Shaw returned a few hours later and the rest of the day started.

But there was never a command to stay in bed, now that he was blind, and today had been no different. He'd had no time to get used to the dark—he didn't have to wear it when he was alone with Shaw, which was most of his life now—and Shaw seemed to want it that way. All the more reason to defy him then, by learning to journey on his own.

He slipped out of bed slowly, wrapping himself in the bed sheet given that he didn't know if he'd be able to find his wardrobe. It would make navigating a bit more difficult, he'd likely trip, but he wasn't about to walk around naked in addition to being unable to see. Shaw had already confessed that the only reason he permitted him clothes in the suite at all was because the castle chilled with winter months approaching. A few more days and September would be drawing to a close—it seemed like their time here had been even longer when he realized a month would be ending.

 _Now isn't the time,_ he snapped at himself. _There are other things to attend to._

The unfortunate truth was that telling himself he was paying attention to the suite's layout didn't compare to moving around in it. He bumped into things—everything—with his feet, hips, and elbows. It felt foolish to blindly grope at first, but he ended up doing it anyway. He found walls, trying to remember which direction led which way. Furniture interrupted his path, startling and disorienting, when he hit it. He thought he was moving slowly, but every collision hurt like he had thrown himself into it.

There were a few stumbles, but it was the main suite's rug that did him in. Utter panic hit as he groped and found nothing, going down without a clue of how to catch himself. The impact came fast, terrifyingly fast, and a stab resounded through the bones of his wrist as he tried to catch himself. The success was debatable at best.

Then he realized it, with Shaw's calculating voice in his mind from two weeks ago – _You won't have a choice._

He didn't realize he'd been rubbing his wrist until he was moving his hand to the small keyhole at the back of his mask. The hairline crack where it opened seemed like a fissure beneath his fingertips, and yet not there at all. There wasn't even enough room to dig his fingers under it—all tight pressure and blackness. Just like when Shaw had first put it on, just like every ' _click_ ' that followed.

Except now he knew—really knew—what it meant. It was the pain in his wrist and the still-racing pulse of his heart. The uncertainty, the fear of falling and not knowing when he'd hit the ground.

He lifted his head when he heard movement in front of him, dropping his hand to the bunched up blankets around his legs. Shaw's laugh was unpleasantly familiar.

“You should have been more patient,” he said. Charles was somewhat relieved that he didn't sound angry.

When Shaw moved he tilted his head, trying to put as much of his ear and focus forward as he could. It was easy to tell when Shaw got close, the movement made it less jarring when a touch suddenly came from the dark. He followed the press of fingers against his chin. There was only one direction Shaw would guide his face and when he obliged, fingers slid down to the pulse in his throat.

“Your heart is racing.”

“I fell.” He drew back from the brush of warm air against his lips. Shaw's fingers slid further down his neck—his touches were the only real thing in the world.

“And sat here waiting for my help. Smart, little prince.”

“I wasn't—” The fingers retracted and an unexpected burst of panic went through him. Everything was indefinite beyond Shaw's fingers, beyond that touch. “I hurt my wrist.”

It was a clumsy observation at best, and for a moment he didn't know why he'd said it at all. Shaw didn't move, and in his stillness he began to disappear. Then: “Did you?”

He nodded, slowly, so as to not upset the tentative stability his mind had regained. When Shaw took the wrist he'd been holding to his chest he realized why he'd said it. Shaw's touch grounded him to something real again, even if it was Shaw, it _existed_ beyond the abyss that his once colorful world had been reduced to.

His hand was rolled, the joints in his wrist protesting loudly to his mind but silently otherwise. He tried to remain stoic, but he hissed as it was gently pressed back.

“A small sprain,” Shaw decreed. “I'll wrap it.”

He moved to get up, touch disappearing again, and the panic returned. Charles blindly grabbed after him. “No!”

“No?”

The material bunched in his hands stopped straining and he felt his cheeks burn. A burst of childish fear and suddenly he was willing to play right into Shaw's game. He set his jaw and made himself let go. He could fix this. He wasn't a child, he would get used to this darkness. He wasn't afraid.

“I—”

But Shaw's chuckle told him he'd already been found out.

“You're afraid to be without my touch.” It wasn't a question, he noted, and felt Shaw kneel beside him again. The fingers to his jaw were harder now, a familiar possessive edge to it. “Say it, my prince.”

“No.”

He'd just tripped, that was all, and he was fine. If Shaw left right now he wouldn't wilt from fear or refuse to try again. He didn't _need_ those grounding touches. He'd be better without them, finding his own footing. The sooner the better. Shaw's words weren't prophecy.

But he could hear Shaw's mind turning beside him in a cunning and dangerous silence that made the hair on his arms prickle. Then it came to a head and suddenly he was being lifted, blankets and all, into Shaw's arms.

“Let's test that confidence of yours, shall we? Just to make sure it's as... _resolute_ as you claim.”

“What?”

But he got no response, just the dizzying sensation of movement as Shaw whisked him from the room. Anxiety mounted as they descended numerous stairs, Shaw's boots leaving echoes in halls he didn't know. He couldn't find words or actions and by the time the world stopped twisting and changing in the imposed dark he realized the air teasing his skin was cool and dank.

Shaw set him on his feet, the floor frozen and slimy under his toes. Without a word Shaw stepped back and left. No promise to return when he thought the lesson might have been learned, no coy little challenge to find his way out, not hint to where they were. Just emptiness and silence.

He didn't know what to do, but his mind surged ahead. It was obvious he was under the castle, but where? Storage? A dungeon? It smelled stale and wet, but not of sewage. There was something in the air, though. It was grotesque and familiar in the way only the most unpleasant things were. He curled his fingers into the sheet, suddenly aware of how very naked he was beneath it.

He wanted to stand still, to wait until Shaw came back for him, but his mind put cruel suggestions into play and monsters in the dark. He'd heard rumors that Shaw kept a great wolf in his dungeon instead of guards. He'd given it a demon's name—Azazel—and let it eat the prisoners he'd run out of use for. He'd thought them stupid rumors, but after meeting Shaw—

 _No,_ he thought. _I'm being ridiculous. They're childish stories used to scare soldiers. I'm alone, and I can't stand here forever. I need...I need a wall._

Collecting himself, he struggled to remember if there was anything indicating Shaw had brought him into a room. The last door he'd heard had been before...before stairs, if he remembered properly. The trip itself was rather hazy, but focusing on the details helped to clear his mind a little.

 _I'll have to run into one eventually,_ he decided and exhaled a shaky breath. He extended a hand and started to carefully shuffle forward. The grit and slime against his feet was revolting, but it seemed better to slide his feet along the floor and avoid falling all together.

Something coarse and damp scraped his ankles, startling him in its sheer unexpectedness. It took him a long minute to discern that it was, most likely, hay. His fingers brushed a wall soon after and he was steadily becoming more certain that this was, indeed, a dungeon. They'd had one in the castle at Westchester as well, though he and Raven only ventured down there a select few times in their lives. Their father had never used it, but ancestors had. He remembered the musky, wet smell and the moldy hay bunched in the corners.

He tried not to think about the slick floors, pushing down the nausea at what it could have been. The place was silent, he was alone, and it was just damp. That's all it was.

Of course, now that he'd found the wall he had no clue what to do with it. He was trying to lean over the buffer of old hay as he kept contact. Eventually, though, he had to move and he just hoped he could find the stairs again. He hoped he was right about everything so far. The hay—if that's what it was—meant that Shaw had put him in a cell. Once he found the door he'd worry about navigating the hallway beyond.

While the corner he found was encouraging, he was shaking and fairly certain he was walking around the entire room to find the door. Every small sound made him freeze, he held his breath and listened. It was terrifying trying to make himself move again, to push away the thoughts that some crazed, long-forgotten prisoner wasn't standing in the doorway waiting. In the darkness all he had was his imagination, his perfectly horrifying monster just waiting for him, for his fingers to pass from safe stone to malformed flesh.

He had to stop, keeping a hand on the wall as he spit out sour saliva to deter the growing nausea. His ears strained for the sound of breathing, because his perfect abomination would silent and clever despite its insanity. _Stop, it's not real._ Still, it got harder to hear over his own pounding heart and within minutes he couldn't move. Dread coursed like ice in his veins and now he was deaf. His mind knew, it could sense the creature there, waiting and so very real.

Some sound startled him, too jumpy now not to twist around. The trepidation was doubled when his mind tried to open his eyes—to see and confirm that he was fine—but the pressure of his masked stopped him. He couldn't open his eyes, but now the thing _knew_ and it wouldn't wait for him to scream and ruin its chance.

Then he was falling, a chain rattling about his ankle and— _oh god_ —it had shackled him to the wall. Something crunched and splintered under his weight, nothing of his own body because whatever it was scraped hard lines into his skin. _Bones_ his mind supplied. The last victim to be trapped by that monster lurking in his personal abyss.

He screamed.

He didn't know for how long. He was waiting for a rough hand that smelled of death to clamp over his mouth. He planned to scream until he was forcibly silenced, hoping to God that the sound would scare the evil thing away. Hoping that someone could come.

Eventually the latter happened.

The first touches frightened more than soothed, he batted and kicked until strong hands were gripping his wrists. He weakly protested to being pulled closer, barely hearing Shaw's voice above his own heartbeat. He was hushing him and it seemed out of place until he'd realized the screaming had turned into dry, choked sobs.

“You're safe,” he cooed. “I've got you, my love.”

The instant the grip on his wrists relaxed he was wrapping his arms around Shaw's neck. He pressed his face into it, or his shoulder, or his chest—he didn't know or care—and drank in his scent. Familiar—the bastard was so familiar—and warm and safe, so safe, despite everything. Shaw wouldn't let something hurt him, even if that really just meant he'd be doing it himself. Shaw wouldn't eat him, pick him apart while he was still alive and devour him sliver by sliver. That was what the monster in his mind wanted.

“Let me see you,” Charles whispered, aware of how his voice shook, aware of his request, aware of how much he _despised_ Shaw. “I need to see you.”

For a terrible moment he thought Shaw would refuse him, casting doubt on the authenticity of the man he was clinging to. His prisoner was clever, maybe it had found some way to imitate even the Black King.

He flexed his fingers, terrified anew, and a wave of tremors surged through his already trembling muscles. Then Shaw moved, keeping one hand around his waist as the other went for, Charles assumed, the key.

“Just for a second,” he said. “Then it goes back on.”

He nodded, vigorous and numb. That was all he needed—just to make sure it was Shaw. He needed to know it was the _right_ monster he was clinging to in the dark.

He tipped his head forward, tense as Shaw found the lock and slotted the key into place. The hinge on the side was silent as the pressure eased and he opened his eyes. The room was dim and Shaw barely lowered the mask, but he forced all his attention on his face. Gradually it came into focus—lines and subtle curves, sharp, dark eyes and it was Shaw. Definitely Shaw. He ran his fingertips along his jaw just to be sure, but it was smooth and real beneath them.

“All right?” Shaw's voice was surprisingly kind, but Charles knew it could flip in an instant. He hesitantly nodded, letting the lock click back into place as his world was sealed away again.

He kept his arms around Shaw's neck and buried himself against his shoulder. His mind was blank aside from the occasional awareness of his shaking or a particular movement from Shaw that made him tighten his hold. Eventually he was back in bed in Shaw's suite, the sheet stripped away and leaving him naked atop the plush duvet. He didn't realize until just then how safe the bed was. He could feel it against almost every side of him, and it was so easy to tell where it ended. Safe.

“Stay here,” Shaw ordered, easing his arms off his shoulders. He was starting to get his wits back, but his nod and the movement to slide under the covers were detached from the rest of him.

He listened as Shaw left and returned, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. He'd mostly stopped shaking by then, focusing on his breathing as much as he could. Shaw stroked his cheek, slid his hand up until the touch disappeared onto his mask. It slid to the lock and he tilted his head into the pillow to oblige it. He felt it unlock more than heard it, the pressure lifting and Shaw's fingers running through his hair. He didn't open his eyes at first, even when it was pulled away and he heard it set delicately on the bedside table.

“Look at me, my love.”

He did. Shaw's face was a mixture of pleasure and pity. It was like he was looking at an animal that he'd injured—satisfied and yet taken by its fragility. Charles dropped his eyes to Shaw's jaw instead, because the twist in his chest let him know that it wasn't an improper look to be set with. He'd been an idiot, a terrified idiot.

“Say it, Charles.” Fingers stroked so sweetly through his hair as heat sparked behind his eyes. Manipulated, twisted, bent—Shaw didn't need a demonic wolf in his dungeons. No one in their right mind would incur his creative torture more than once.

“I'm afraid...” he swallowed the thick knot of pride in his throat. His voice quieted. “...to be without your touch.”

He didn't need to look at Shaw to feel the sadistic glee in his smile. He was proud of every inch he'd chipped away, and yet Charles could see no way to fight off the psychological chisel. Submission was his only guaranteed peace, and even that was temporary.

“Very good,” Shaw purred, tracing down his neck. “You missed breakfast, I'm afraid. Do you need something to tide you over until lunch?”

He couldn't fathom eating, so he shook his head.

“Excellent, that leaves time for a more pressing issue.”

And it was not so surprising when Shaw rolled him onto his back to pin him to the bed. Teeth were soon leaving fresh marks on his neck— _sliver by sliver_ —Shaw's erection grinding into his hip. But he watched the late morning sun light up the ceiling and let his mind wander to a place without abominations or kings who were aroused by his fear. _Safe_.

\--------

Raven made herself blissfully scarce after their argument, only appearing near his doorway when they went for meals together over the days that followed. Erik gave her free reign to wander wherever she liked and didn't bother telling her not to try to run. Her attachment to her brother would do more than enough to keep her anchored to Lourdes.

Sometimes he saw her outside in the courtyard, wandering, but it was a rare thing. Mostly she stayed in her suite, the meals they shared with Shaw and Charles being the only examples of tenuous courtesy between them. He remembered to bring paper after the first time, though it was burdensome and he had little to say.

At first he was pleased to return to the balanced, quiet life that he had known before Shaw invited such chaos upon him. It was nice to be alone again, truly, but her presence was staunch and bright in the back of his mind, surfacing in his dreams. He hadn't dreamed of his first days in Lourdes in quite a few years, but now his mind had choice few other places it would rather visit.

The castle was intimidating and large when he'd first come to it, so easy to get lost in, and he didn't have the imagination, even in his youth, to appreciate such a thing. He was out of his element, far from the home he'd known for the first sixteen years of his life. Parallels were drawn between him and Raven in the network of his mind before he could prevent them. They remained when he woke up.

It was those similarities that kept the guilt burning. He'd realized with unfortunate clarity that _guilt_ seemed to be a recurring theme concerning Raven. He felt some inkling of responsibility for her, but she needed to grow up. The world hadn't made demands of her, being a princess with a crown prince to take over when their father died, but that wasn't her world anymore. She had to prepare, and she had to stop relying on him to do it for her.

 _She's just a child,_ his mind hissed, argumentative, as he made his way across the grounds. The shield of his own past constantly came up to protect her from his harsher reprimands, but it was waring thin. His situation had been worse and better in its own rights, but he had made it through. She would as well, if she would only pursue the strength for it.

He unbolted the lock to Tristan's stall, the horse stepping forward to bump against his chest. His hand ran over the sleek grain of his hide, warm and perfect under his palm. He'd considered, briefly, bringing Raven down to meet him, though it was through the same uncertain notions that drove many of his actions concerning her. A gaping hole had formed in his mind as the only response to the ever-posed question of “What am I supposed to _do_?” There was something always lingering just outside his grasp, some way to help without just doing everything for her.

He slipped the halter on, though Tristan stayed close by him even without the loose hold on its worn leather. It was only when they were outside in the crisp, air and green grass that his attention wandered. The stallion tugged free of Erik's fingers and started nipping at the ground, tugging up what grass he could before it was buried beneath layers of snow. Erik took a seat on his cloak, resting his arms on his folded legs while Tristan ate circles around him.

The fact remained, in the end, that there wasn't much he could do that wouldn't be met with hostility or insufficiency. She wanted her brother, and even if it was in Erik's power to whisk the two of them out of the kingdom—which it was certainly not—he couldn't say he would have done it anyway. He wasn't about to throw away his life for either of them. That was what bothered him the most: her assumptions that he _should_.

She was too quick to pull up a card demanding that he come to her rescue whenever she needed him, which made her considerably worse than the women he'd tried to avoid in the past. At least they were conniving enough to come up with plans and pursue them. He couldn't honestly say he missed those who were after his reputation and monetary worth—which was really far less than they seemed to realize—but at least they had drive and willingness. That said something. The resolve to find a course and hold fast to it was admirable.

He supposed Raven just hadn't found her course despite the demands that she made. She knew what she wanted, yes, but she hadn't turned it into something she could achieve. That was the first step of warfare. Hell, it was the first step of _life_ in his mind. It was just navigating blind otherwise, and he'd only been submersed in such murky depths once in all his years. He had no call to return to it.

But what did that mean for him, then? He could hardly encourage her to try to sneak away with her brother. That was just as much of a betrayal as assisting them himself. No, she needed some other goal. The proper chance to make connections, he supposed—she needed to form a life for herself outside of her brother.

 _Great,_ he said. _Now, what does **that** mean?_

Exasperated, he tossed a few blades of grass he had been picking at in Tristan's direction, though he got no more than an ear flicking in his direction for it. He watched him continue to eat before lifting his head slowly, craning it in the castle's direction.

Erik frowned. “What?”

He looked towards the nearest doors, but there wasn't a soul outside save for the two of them. His attention scaled up the wall slowly, darting between the windows— _there._

They were still within the walls of the grounds, so he could make out someone in the window. At first he didn't realize who it was, and it was rather a matter of piecing together the location compared to who would be there. It was the King's consort he was looking at and, in fact, Charles seemed to be looking at him as well. The frown had faded just to return again. He couldn't see the blindfold from this distance, maybe the King had taken it off?

He wasn't sure what measure of idiocy made him raise his arm in something between a wave and what could have passed for a salute in some former life. All he knew was that he felt like a fool when the distant figure retreated into the room again without a reaction. Erik suspected he'd been blindfolded after all, and he dropped his arm back down to rest on his knees.

“Well, that was pointless,” he murmured to Tristan. The drestier snorted, wandering closer to nudge against his boot. Erik moved it, letting him get at the grass around his foot despite the fact that plenty more stretched on around them. He reached out comb his fingers through the forelock, pulling loose a few snags from the coarse strands. Eventually Tristan started nudging at his leg and he pushed his head away. “I'm not moving, go pick another damn spot.”

Tristan gave a dry snort against his stomach before wandering a little ways away, resuming his gluttonous task. Erik rested his chin on his arms. Despite his claim, the reemergence of Charles' presence had pulled his thoughts in a renewed direction. _I suppose helping her keep what contact with him wouldn't hurt. Maybe the King wouldn't be opposed to them writing letters._

She'd been worried again when Charles hadn't shown up for breakfast, though Erik had assured her he'd be at dinner after checking in with the King. He could tell his monarch's patience was running thin with the constant questions and it was all Erik could do to keep from pointing out that Shaw had been the one to invite the siblings upon their lives. At least he seemed willing to answer them, more often than not, and perhaps the writing of letters might assuage both of them to settle into their new roles. A small comfort that wouldn't necessarily break the ban on the limited communication the King had imposed.

The inquiry couldn't hurt, he supposed. _But for that, she'll need a few things._

He stood up, clicking his tongue and Tristan trotted back towards him without the slightest show of annoyance for having his treat interrupted. Erik gave him a pat on the neck. “Looks like we're heading back into town.”

\--------

Despite the fact that he had fallen down, Shaw stopped tying him to the bed. Apparently the psychological experiment of taking him down to the dungeon had proved whatever point Shaw needed to think him harmless. Charles was indignant about the lack of proper consideration of him as a threat—intellectually, not physically—but also thankful for it. Now he could wander around the rooms and attempt to get his bearings a little bit more.

He truly had gotten used to the pain now that the month was drawing to a close. Shaw also got more distracted with his work, which he couldn't keep at bay forever. As much as Charles struggled to keep from acknowledging it, the man was a King at the end of the day. He had business to attend to, though none of this business was ever shared. Due to his confinement in the suite, he didn't even have gossip to entertain himself with. He'd never even liked gossip, but it would have been something.

The lack of social interaction was draining in its own way. He found that speaking through Shaw at meals wasn't so terrible, if only because it allotted him some sort of communication. He longed for his sister's voice, but her words were soothing in their own right, he supposed. He tried to get Shaw to let him keep the papers she passed, but he staunchly refused. Any attempt at garnering a reason was just as unsuccessful.

Lying in bed being depressed over his situation wasn't going to help him, though, and now that he had some limited range of movement he intended to use it. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, keeping the weight off of his still-sore wrist as he slid down. The bed was high enough and (unfortunately) he was short enough that it was a bit of a fall before his feet found the ground. When they did, though, he took the same measure of pride in it that he had a few days ago.

He swallowed. _Alright, then. Let's focus on the bedroom for now._

He had a tentative map in his mind of how it looked, a little more solid than it had been a few days ago when he'd first tried, but he would take the improvement where he could get it. It was difficult to focus on proper details when Shaw often came back with one thing on his mind. Everything passed by in a blur of action and heat and before he knew it he was on the bed again, singularly focused on trying not to scream for a reason that had very little to do with any physical pain.

 _Focus,_ he chided, taking a deep breath. He moved away from the bed, running his fingertips along the bedside table and shuffling his feet against the floor. He wasn't dressed, but he left the sheets on the bed this time. The wardrobe would make a nice goal; he tried to summon a clear picture of its positioning in his mind.

As much as he would have loved to stride with confidence in the direction he remembered it being, he didn't. The thought of letting go of the things that grounded him to the world were still less than favorable, but he had hope that the confidence might form as he adjusted. So long as Shaw didn't go moving furniture on him, he would be fine.

He found the bedroom wall just beside the bedside table and navigated along it. If he remembered properly, there was only a window between him and the wardrobe in the corner. The idea of passing by the window made his cheeks burn a little bit with the last bit of dignity he had clung to throughout the past two weeks. He stretched his fingers just a touch ahead of him and when the cool edge of the glass pane came in contact with it he took a deep breath and crossed the width in two strides. Even if someone had been looking he imagined the sill didn't go lower than his hips. Small miracles of being short, he supposed.

The wardrobe was just a few strides beyond that then, and he kept one hand on the wall while the other reached blindly ahead of him. _At least being locked in means that no one can see me doing this,_ he said, determined to keep some positive spin on a remarkably negative situation. His fingers brushed over the hard wood of the wardrobe. _Ah! Splendid._

It was surprisingly easy to tell Shaw's clothes from his designated robes. He could have tried stealing some of the more reassuring trousers and shirts—what had once been his usual fare—but didn't. The robes were easier to put on and if he could avoid Shaw's wrath for one day by small concessions then he'd be all the better for it.

Victory came in the reassuring warmth of being clothed and he allowed himself a small smile—the first since that dreadful ceremony, he was sure—as he closed the door and ran his hand down the crease where the two doors met. _One goal down. Now, what next?_

Shaw likely wouldn't be back until lunch, so he had some time before he had to worry about that. As tempted as he was to try learning the suite, he contained himself to the bedroom for now. When he could more confidently stride from the bed to the wardrobe he would try the other rooms.

Finding the wall again, he made his way back towards the window and pressed his forehead to the cool class when he found it. His mind saw fit to tell him that this was the point where, if he had been walking around with his proper sight, he would have let his eyes dropped closed and his mind wander. It seemed stupid, really, to think of his eyesight as something he had taken for granted.

“I'd taken my entire _life_ for granted,” he murmured. He felt his breath chill just a bit and bounce back against him, maybe fogging the glass in front of his face.

He remembered his quiet curses to himself after meetings with his father's advisers, their scornful stares and disapproving tuts over his ideologies. Their family hadn't been a militant one in at least three generations, his father had raised him to believe in compromise and avoiding warfare, but the capability was there. There was a constant understanding that his duty was to his people and his kingdom and if that meant war, then it meant war. He couldn't hesitate.

Now, he supposed, most of their worries had come from Shaw's amassing empire to the West. Maybe he hadn't taken them seriously enough. Most of them were probably dead by now.

He pushed himself away from the window and turned to head back along the wall towards the wardrobe. “Dwelling on it certainly won't help me any more than lying around waiting for Shaw to get back will.”

 _Help you to what, exactly?_ His mind replied, in a tone befitting one of those very advisers he had just contemplated. Charles wanted to ignore it, but it was a valid question.

“Make the best out of a terrible situation, I suppose.” He frowned. “I wonder if finding an inanimate object to speak to would make me seem more or less insane than talking to myself...”

 _More._

“Oh, hush.”

Charles silenced the voice quickly—it was just want for conversation, after all—and went back to navigating around the chamber. He walked past the wardrobe, kept his fingers stretched between one side of the door and the other, and navigated to the other side of the room. He wasn't sure why his mind dubbed it “Shaw's side,” given that the entire room was Shaw's, but he didn't care to start talking to himself again.

Shaw's side, as it was, seemed to be an exact mirror of the one he'd just come from—that fit right in with the mental map he was working on. He remembered some sections of furniture, though they were abstract and he took note of just how little attention he had been paying. Clearly he'd been out of his mind in trying to navigate the rest of the suite if he didn't even know the room he was confined in for the past two weeks.

The only difference was a chest of drawers that had a few trinkets on the top that he couldn't identify by touch. _Probably jewels of some sort,_ he decided. He slid his fingers down the drawers, counting four of them by their small, ornate handles. It was beautifully crafted, if the carved ridges were anything to go by, but he didn't linger for too long. He found the wall again, navigated the agonizingly long trek to Shaw's bedside table and, right after, his side of the shared bed.

“Alright then,” he huffed, dropping his head forward. “I've established perimeter, now what?”

He pulled himself up onto the bed, crawling across to the other side—his side—and lying down again. Back where he started.

In the stark reality of things, it wasn't much progress. Two weeks here, one of which without his sight, and all he'd really managed to do was establish a vague understanding of the bedroom. Compared to the things he'd been made to do and say, it really wasn't much of a victory. The square little perimeter wasn't going to help him assuage Shaw from his advances or escape or...really anything.

He turned his head into the pillow and rolled onto his side. _Victory indeed,_ his mind remarked snidely.

He didn't dignify it with a response.

\--------

It was growing dark by the time she returned to her room, the candelabra lit and casting her room in a waiting, warm glow. She wasn't sure that it did much to chase away the chill, but she took what comfort she could get. She found she needed it even more, now that she was certain whatever tentative respite she had with Erik had been destroyed. She couldn't say that she felt guilty for what had transpired those few days ago, so much as stupid. She'd been foolish to think that he could step outside of himself to see Shaw for the monster he was.

Her bed was freshly made and waiting for her, reinforcing the tug of sleep at the back of her mind. Dinner had been remarkably uneventful, save that Erik was late and hadn't been in his room when she went to wait for him. Seeing Charles on Shaw's lap still made it impossible to eat much, her stomach twisting into viscous knots at the sight. Worse yet was the fact that Charles was impossible to read, doing everything in his power to keep stoic and unobtrusive.

She pinched at her eyes, took a seat on the edge of her bed, and tried to imagine what her brother's mask must feel like – could he open his eyes beneath it? Did he have even the smallest hints of light to remind him of the world outside? Her mind was embittered with the likely reality—Charles' life had been reduced to little more than uncertain murk.

And here she sat, helpless, despite the fact that Erik had given her so much freedom.

She laid back on the pillows and rolled over, kicking her leg out across the duvet. Something bumped against her ankle and her eyes settled on an upturned box wrapped in blue ribbon. She didn't sit up so much as twisted on the bed until her fingers could close around it and pull it closer. A folded slip of paper was attached, straight and rushed handwriting slanting across the inside:

 _Raven,_

 _Use this to write to your brother from now on.  
It should fit in your usual bag._

It wasn't signed, but she didn't have to stretch her mind far to guess who it was from. The ribbon came loose easily enough when she tugged it, sitting up properly to hold it in her lap. It wasn't wrapped and was about the size of a small book, though not as thick or heavy. When she lifted the lid, the inside held a small, relatively detailed stationary. A thin stack of papers, bound by a similar blue ribbon, took up the majority, with a small blocked off section for the bottle of ink and a slightly longer one for a small, black quill. The nib glinted in a way only clean, well-worked metal could.

Erik had been bringing parchment, ink and a quill to the meals for her ever since Charles started eating with them regularly; she didn't know where the supplies were. Only then did it occur to her that she could have asked, he likely would have told her without hesitation. Now he'd gone out of his way to buy this, but it was impossible to take it as a token of spite or a jab at her intelligence for not asking sooner. He'd just done it—he knew she needed it.

She ran her fingers over the surface of the box, which she realized now was engraved with detailed, winding patterns of no design that she recognized. It was beautifully crafted, to be certain. She wondered offhandedly if he had commissioned it for her specifically—it was a nice thought. They hadn't spoken much since the argument, except when she'd started worrying at him over Charles' absence at breakfast a few days ago. He'd been silent and now she wondered _then? Had he already had it commissioned?_

The metal was warm under her fingers by the time she set it aside, sliding off the bed and heading for the doorway. It was dark, certainly, but it wasn't all that late into the evening. There couldn't be any harm in seeing if he was awake.

A dull light was peering from the bottom of Erik's door when she got there, knocking with a bit more confidence then she would have otherwise. She recalled the size of his suite, that he could have been anywhere in it and probably wouldn't have heard if she knocked timidly. When there wasn't an initial response she knocked again, and this time the stream of light was momentarily interrupted. Erik opened the door a second later.

“Raven,” he said flatly. With just her name she wondered if, perhaps, she'd guessed the wrong person after all.

“Hi,” she replied. He raised a brow and she pulled her back straighter, curling her fingers into determined but unoffensive fists at her side. “I wanted to say thank you. For the stationary.”

He didn't move or speak.

“...I know it was you.”

“No, you don't.”

Her stomach dropped towards her feet, the need to back-peddle hitting her full force. Here she was making a total buffoon of herself and Erik didn't know what she was talking about. But if not him, then who had—

“But you're right,” he continued. He probably sensed her panicking. She narrowed her eyes when a smile parted his lips, flashing the hint of a rather impressive line of teeth.

Without thinking she reached forward to shove him. “Twit.”

For the first time a small chuckle bubbled between them and Raven rather felt like something had loosened in her chest and slid free. She reached up to tuck some of her hair behind her ear.

“It really is beautiful though, thank you.”

He looked off to the side, towards his door frame, and she couldn't tell if he was trying to act nonchalant about it to make himself seem more aloof or if he was really just embarrassed. “I just thought you could do with something that had some actual use.”

“Mmhm,” she hummed. She didn't believe him for a second, of course, and Erik seemed to know that when he shot a light glare in her direction. “Can I hug you now?”

“I—what?”

“It's not a foreign concept. I've done it a few times—”

“I _know_ ,” he snapped, though there wasn't any real harshness to his tone. “You've just never asked before.”

“Well.” She tapped her toe against the stone floor. “I'm working on that whole process of straightening out my head a little more. I figured I could start with being polite? You know, 'please' and 'thank you' and 'would it be okay if I hugged my husband?' That type of thing.”

“I've created a monster, haven't I?” He rolled his eyes.

She smirked, feeling confident in the expression in light of the fact that, even in the dark, Erik's eyes seemed to be glinting a bit with amusement. “Just a little one.”

“Alright,” he sighed, like it was some punishment she was attempting to force him to. He opened the door a little bit more, and beyond that his only contribution to the effort was not side-stepping when she wrapped her arms around him. She considered it equal amounts of work.

She pulled back slowly, before that awkward tension could start creeping up his back again, and moved to her tip-toes to kiss his cheek. _That_ , she was pleased to note, seemed to baffle him even more.

She stepped back and turned to head for her room, smiling. “Good night, Erik.”

He made a sound, quite possibly an attempt at a reply, but she didn't hang around to let him try to redeem himself (or, more likely, dig himself into a deeper hole).


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now I am officially caught up to where I am on LJ. Yay!
> 
> Also, thanks everyone here on AO3 who's given kudos. I really appreciate it. I'm one of those authors that feeds off of your attention and approval, particularly since this fandom has so many wonderful writers. I hope that I don't lose any of you as this fanfiction progresses!
> 
> \--------

**OCTOBER**

It wasn't an easy thing to do, blocking out a sulking girl. Raven didn't stay in his rooms anymore, but he was responsible for her. Keeping her out of trouble had become a main priority, though she had steadily gotten more docile.

The cooling Fall air was hardly conclusive to a walk in the city, but she was getting restless. They both were, he supposed, and it wasn't yet so cool that they should be confined indoors—Winter would be dealing them that prison soon enough without inviting it upon themselves early.

Raven was reluctant to venture out, but it was of her own volition in the end. He wasn't going to beg, but that didn't stop him from pointing out a few facts: she would be mostly alone in the castle, and it was getting cold, thus, her freedom would soon be limited even further. Even if she wasn't interested outright, it made her curious enough to get dressed properly and meet him in the main hall.

They didn't bother horses or carriages, and it seemed for the best. Raven recovered some color with the turning leaves, the wind pulling at her scarf. She walked a little ahead of him and trailed a little behind depending on what caught her attention, all-in-all she was mostly silent. The nearer they got to the city the more she crept from the self-imposed shell. It was a process.

“Charles loves the Fall.”

 _Here we are again,_ he refrained from saying. Instead he murmured a sound of acknowledgment, watching her look at the sky. The sun caught on the slight waves in her blonde hair when she turned to look at him. A breeze teased it across her face and she was suddenly so young, but not in the same way the fear had affected her over two weeks ago now. This was different, innocent. Better, somehow.

“And you?” He found the words leaving his lips before he consented them to do such a thing. Ah, well, they were harmless enough.

“Me?” She blinked, clearly surprised. But he didn't have to press before she was thinking, fingers entwining loosely behind her back. Then she smiled, wide, almost devious, really, but in one of the more harmless ways. “Summer. I love the warm weather and all the green.”

He nodded. She fell in step beside him now, a few paces away still. He couldn't say he minded when it seemed terribly like they spent a lot of time in close proximity. He didn't much enjoy having people so close to him, and she really wasn't the exception despite his attempts to comfort her throughout the past two weeks.

“What about you?” Her words were slow, precise. She'd taken to doing that lately, he'd noted, like she wasn't sure what questions she had the right to ask.

“They're all the same to me,” he replied. She must've sensed some sort of falseness in it because she pressed: “That can't be true. There must be at least one that you favor!”

There wasn't, not really, but the look in her eyes made him feel that there should have been. No one had taken an interest in such an innocent aspect of his life before. He almost felt disappointed in himself if he didn't come up with an answer for her. He sighed and thought about it.

“Summer, I suppose.”

“You suppose? That hardly sounds very convincing.”

He shrugged. “Combat is easier in the summer.”

It was true, of course. When the landscape was dry and warm it was often easier to fight. He had yet to venture to a place that had such unbearable heat and humidity that he couldn't function in full capacity on the battlefield. There was plenty of light, sure footing and often not too much to worry about for wind or storms. Of course, there was the occasional summer rainstorm, but that wasn't so terrible to deal with.

Raven didn't look convinced, though, and he wasn't sure why. He couldn't figure out why it should bother him that she didn't look convinced, either.

“What?”

“That's not how that works.”

Her voice was so simple and matter-of-fact that he would have thought they were playing some game he had forgotten the rules of except that he abhorred games.

“And what does _that_ mean?”

She huffed. “That isn't how that works. You can't...it can't be your favorite just because fighting is easier.”

“And why not?” His voice was a touch sharp, but he was more bothered by the fact that this was cause for him to be annoyed at all than being questioned. How ridiculous, how _childish_ of him. “Or maybe you just don't care for the fact that we share the same season?”

It wasn't a secret that she didn't care for him, after all. A look of offense passed over her face. They pulled to a stop.

“That's ridiculous, you can like whatever season you want to,” she said. “But it has to be your favorite because...because it _feels_ right.”

He quirked a brow, biting back the urge to scoff. “And why should my comfort on the battle feel any less _right_ than your enjoyment at the warm weather?”

She furrowed her brow, searching for the words. Then, with startling aggression, threw up her hands in frustration. “Oh, forget it! You're impossible.”

He watched her brush past him and it was strange, the slight crestfallen feeling that curled in his stomach. It felt like he'd missed something, and he remembered back to his strategy lessons under Shaw, those moments when he didn't understand something and the King would click his tongue or, worse yet, remain silent for a long time. How was it possible that such a trivial thing could cause that? Stir up things that he hadn't felt since he was a _child_?

“Winter.”

Again, words leaving his mouth without his explicit and signed consent. He didn't think it would affect anything at first, but she stopped when the last of the sound left him. Her hands, which she'd crossed in front of her chest, dropped back to her sides. She didn't turn around, and he was reminded now of that split second when she'd first moved into her new suite, how he'd kept his back to her as they spoke. But now the situation was reversed, and although he could demand that she turn around and respect social norms, he didn't.

“Why?”

His gloved fingers dug into his palm and his eyes dipped from her hands to the dirt road. “I—” A beat. “I don't know.”

Winter was harsh and unforgiving. He'd lost people, good comrades, to the winter cold while they waged necessary wars on Shaw's behalf. He remembered black frost creeping across the skin of his soldiers, the complaints and pain of every bite of chill. Winter was terrible for battles, for war in general, and so he really had no reason to think that it would be his favorite and yet – and yet _what?_ – he still didn't know.

Suddenly, without warning, Raven's hand had broken through the haze of consideration he'd found himself in. She'd walked back, thrust her gloved palm in front of him, and wiggled her fingers. He stared blankly at it, confused, until she made a sound of exasperation and took his hand.

“Come on, then,” she said, even though he walked beside her without needing to be tugged along. Her hand was not remarkably warm in his, but it was small and firm, and he supposed that was good enough.

\--------

He led her to the markets first, picking up two fresh apples for snacks during their walk, and he'd barely had time to pass the coin off before she was wandering in another direction, examining some of the local stock. If she noticed the way the vendors looked at him then she didn't comment on it.

He trailed behind, watching her weave gracefully and politely between people in her controlled excitement. The shopping district held slightly more appeal for her when they got there, apples finished and cores disposed.

When Shaw took over a territory, they were given permission to barter in his capitol, which meant that a great many of the finest and most curious things had ended up in Lourdes. Raven, from what he could tell, had never left Westchester, so the trinkets and fashions displayed were all quite interesting to her. They sold talismans, carefully stitched and dyed jackets and gloves, well-worked leather and delicately worked metal—everything seemed to captivate her, at least for a time, though she didn't ask for any of it. She just drifted from one stand to another, touching and questioning, before moving on.

A small shop near the end of the street suddenly began leaking a very pale smoke, a sort decidedly not caused by any typical fire. Raven caught his hand and pulled him closer, parting the crowd easily. Erik rolled his eyes as they went, releasing her hand and stepping forward as some vendors in the immediate vicinity cursed and a few patrons gasped in surprise. It seemed prudent to at least attempt to calm the situation before it was made a further mess of.

He'd just started for the door, Raven trailing behind, when it opened with a jolt. The crowed parted and moved so the smoky figure that stumbled out of it wouldn't hit them. It was on Erik that it did, in fact, catch itself, coughing and waving a hand in front of its face.

“Oh, dear.” Raven took a step out from behind him now that she was certain she wouldn't be hit with flailing limbs. She reached forward, batting her hand lightly to help dissipate the smoke. Erik remained stiff as the _it_ steadily became _he_.

“Henry,” Erik said.

“Gah!” The tall, slim young man jumped and pulled his hand away. He nearly tipped backwards, bumping into someone else, before straightening himself. “Sorry, sorry. Ah—oh, uhm.”

Raven only barely managed to contain her laugh to the palm of her hand. He kept his own amusement contained to a quirk of his eyebrow.

“H-Hello, sir. Good morning,” Henry amended. The front of his brown mess of hair was sticking up and the brunt of the white plumes were wafting from it—his face was splotched with purple.

“You're smoking,” he observed. It was always a little fun to see Henry squirm, if he was honest, which was the only reason for acting the way he was now.

“Yes, sorry—sorry about that. I was mixing and the reactions were a bit more volatile than I was, er, anticipating.”

“Clearly.”

“What were you mixing that was purple?” Raven inquired, her voice light but critical in its curiosity.

Henry took note of her for the first time, Erik decided this based on the rather wide-eyed expression that overcame him. The scientist wasn't the sort to look over a woman with a carnal lust but rather an appropriate fascination. Erik knew that in the abstract sense, but it was oddly justifying to have it solidified in this exact moment.

“Oh, it was just some—wait.” _Ah, not so captivated after all._ “How did you know it was purple?”

Raven seemed braver as she stepped around him, extracting a blue handkerchief from the bag that usually contained her stationary. She reached up to his face. Henry's startled eyes found him, though only for a second, and he shrugged despite the fact it went unseen. She wiped at Henry's face and held the damage for him to see—purple smudges now marring the neat cloth. The young man flushed.

“Is it—”

“All over?” Raven finished. Henry nodded, not unlike a guilty child. “Yes.”

Erik decided that was an appropriate time to clear his throat, though the back of his neck prickled when he suddenly had both of their attention on him. It was a blessing that Henry handled silences even worse than he did.

“Did you need something, sir? I can probably—” All eyes were drawn to the smoke still seeping out of every available crack in the small building. He watched Henry's shoulders sink. Raven held back another chuckle.

“No, that isn't necessary.” Henry looked somewhat relieved. “I was showing Raven the town. Raven, this is Henry McCoy.”

She didn't often show any sign of the royal etiquette that Erik considered rather stuffy, but in that moment she did, bending slightly at the knee and inclining her head. “It's nice to meet you.”

It was far too amusing watching Henry blanch, uncertain, before nodding. “My pleasure, my lady.”

“Don't say that. You don't know her yet,” Erik said, finding it wonderfully easy to make his tone teasing. Raven feigned offense, digging her elbow against his arm. Henry laughed awkwardly, but at least he was trying.

It was very easy to see the warmth in Raven's eyes, so suddenly there like the sun keeping out from behind a cloud. She looked back at Henry again, finding something of wonder and interest about him that Erik hadn't anticipated. He hadn't intentionally been playing matchmaker, after all, though he'd considered stopping by to see Henry anyway. He usually did, if only to make sure he wasn't ruffling the feathers of too many townspeople.

He couldn't say if the information he was about to offer would be given any real consideration, but he decided to try it anyway. “Henry is a scientist with a penchant for making things explode.”

“Yeah.” A pause, he flushed. “N—not intentionally, I mean. It just happens sometimes, you know, with some of the elements—”

Raven smiled. The expression was brighter than he'd ever seen before. “I get it.”

They lapsed into silence again until Henry's cleared his throat. “I should, uh, go take care of that.”

 _Well, that makes one of them._ Erik rolled his eyes. Henry still seemed, for all intents, quite oblivious—or maybe ignorant—of Raven's attention. He turned around to head back inside, likely to open the windows on the upper level. He turned around before he got too far.

“It was nice meeting you, my lady.”

“You too.” Erik's pallet recoiled at the sweet, airy tone of her voice. It reminded him of several choice women he had met in the past, and the only thing that didn't make him more bothered by it was the fact that it wasn't addressed towards him.

He raised a brow, waiting for Raven to tear her eyes away. She didn't until Henry had opened the upstairs window and closed the front door with one final, gawky wave. When she did look at Erik again she frowned.

“What?”

“He's a bit of a social dimwit,” he explained. She scoffed.

“Like _you're_ so much better?” She challenged, turning to keep walking. It was his turn to frown, though he followed behind.

“That wasn't what I was implying, for one. For another, I was just warning you in case you decide to...” He struggled, mind burning when Shaw's voice purred through his inner sanctuary— _Particularly since I'm having the hardest time keeping myself away from Charles._

“'To' – what?”

He snapped himself out of it. “...try anything.”

She laughed, the sound light and rejuvenating. “What makes you think I want to try anything? I _am_ a married woman, after all.”

He snorted, the conversation drifting off with the mutual amusement. But even as they moved on, discussing a proper lunch while they were out, he didn't fail to notice the way she stole one last look towards the dissipating smoke before they turned onto the next street.

\--------

He'd started paying attention to the rooms now when he had the chance, devouring every detail with a renewed interest. It was no longer his prison, but an intricate puzzle to be mapped out for when his sight was taken from him. He started memorizing everything that he could, cataloging it as very important—furniture, rugs, walls and windows—or more minute and superfluous to his mental maps—this consisted mostly of where trinkets were on surfaces.

Over the first week of October he had managed to come up with a rough layout of the entire suite, able to navigate from one room to another by trailing his fingers along the wall and shuffling his feet slowly across the floor. When he figured out where the persistent snag in the rug by the door was he got more confident in lifting his feet off the ground. He couldn't move with the same confidence through every room—the bedroom was the only one where he'd learned the exact angles to twist his body and the number of steps between points of interest—but he was getting there.

It wasn't a flawless process and his self-consciousness still burned at the back of his mind when he had to grope for things or when he stumbled. He'd never considered himself all that graceful before he had to endure this, but now he was keenly aware of the confidence that his steps were lacking. However, the determination to have that ease of movement recovered was something he could latch onto for now. A small goal.

He needed whatever distractions he could find to keep his mind away from Shaw. The violation of his body seemed to get worse now in an unexpected way. What had once been mere punctuations of tenderness were now turning into regular occurrences that sent his mind into conflict with itself. Shaw was affectionate and, by all conventional measures, loving. It didn't fit with the man who still ignored his refusal to be touched, cooing at him how much easier this would all be if he would just give in and accept it.

He hadn't been raised with ideas of violence, of lashing out, but he found his mind turning towards those ideas now as Shaw's words shook him to the very core. Shaw was mad, surely, to think that this was any way to go about establishing a real relationship with someone.

Sometime, a few days ago, when he'd been running his fingers over the surfaces of the study, he found something slightly threatening. He didn't know what it was—certainly nothing intended to be used as a weapon, it was smooth along the edges with a dull point, possibly wood. A letter-opener, perhaps?—but his mind started spiraling into how he could use it. He'd let it fall back onto Shaw's desk with a clatter and nearly tripped on his way out of the office.

Violence didn't repulse him, but it unsettled him, and what unsettled him more was that his mind seemed to know he would likely have to aim for the eye with that particular non-weapon. It wasn't sharp enough and he wasn't strong enough to drive it in Shaw's heart, and it certainly wasn't long to kill him if he aimed anywhere else—

“Stop it,” he'd hissed. “You're not killing anyone.”

Murder, he decided, would be the final straw. If he succumbed to that darkness, then Shaw would irrevocably win—and he would win so much more than his body or his temporary submission.

From there he reasoned that there had to be some other way of working around his present situation, even if his mind was reluctant to focus for him while he was stumbling around the suite in the dark. He found Shaw's study to be the most soothing place available to him, which was surprising given that he knew it the least. He'd found shelves of books lining the wall opposite of the doorway and the ache at being unable to read them was softened by touching them. It was where he found himself more days than not.

They were old, from what the pads of his fingers gathered, and well-read. He plucked one out of the line carefully, slipping his fingers into the slot as he opened it with his other hands and— _ah_ —the smell reminded him of the library in Westchester's castle. He'd spent much of his time there even outside of his studies, reading on politics and histories as prompted by his father and tutors. Raven would sometimes be sated enough to sit and listen to him read some of the old legends, allowing him to indulge in some rather mediocre storytelling skills.

He explored the books in every tactile way his mind could conceive, from front cover to back, the spines, the worn edges of the pages and the creases therein. He entertained the idea of memorizing each one by its distinct touch, but he doubted his capacity for such a thing. Though, with his current predicament—well, things were too uncertain to judge. At this point, it seemed very possible that he would be there for some time.

Behind him he heard the door unlock but, aside from a minor tension and moving to put the book back, he didn't move. As it turned out, Shaw didn't expect him to be waiting in his bed when he returned anymore. _I will sit at the vanity and wait to be let out of my mask and stripped._ If he wasn't at the vanity, then he stayed in the mask, simple as that. He'd had to repeat the rules at least three times since that night—the second and third times he didn't have to contend with Shaw's cock driving into him.

He heard Shaw coming, straining his attention for the sound of his boots. His voice was light, like they'd been playing a hiding game. “There you are.”

He didn't say anything, or turn around, just focused on the rough edge of the book's cracked spine beneath his fingertip. For all his dominance and possessiveness, Shaw had started to ease off in the past few days. He didn't know if it was because of the strain of returning to his work or something else. He honestly didn't care to know either.

His mind tracked Shaw's steps across the room in a vague sense, unable to tell where he stepped around furniture and he soon lost track of the steps themselves, but he knew when he was closer. He didn't jump the way he used to when arms slotted around his waist, their weight resting on his hips. It felt wrong, like trying to force a key into a lock that it wasn't meant for, but he stayed silent.

“You certainly have a fondness for books you can't read,” Shaw teased. The muscles of Charles' abdomen tightened at the affront, but he forced his head to stay cool.

“That's like saying I have an affinity for the floor I can't see just because I get out of bed,” he replied.

Shaw chuckled. He hadn't meant that to be _funny_.

“I suppose.”

He wasn't really consenting, Charles knew, but he cataloged it as a victory anyway. Almost anything that didn't end in Shaw attempting to reassert his authority over his life was a victory.

Soon enough Shaw's lips found his nape, his hot breath tickling the strands as it left his nose. Charles struggled to keep still, fighting back the inherent need to pull away. He'd learned early on that it just provoked him, that docility—without a show of weakness—was the best defense he had. Probably the only defense he had, really.

He tilted his head up, reaching to the shelf just above his head for something else to feel—Shaw's fingers curled around his wrist, pressing it to the edge of the bookshelf. He gritted his teeth. _Idiot._

To some small credit, Shaw didn't press him against the bookshelf. He just started sucking a new bruise into his neck, his weight heavy against Charles' back.

“Tell me about your day,” Charles tried. He was careful not to fight, not to pull away from or push towards him. It was a new tactic, one that had taken all of the past three weeks to conceive. _Now or never._

“It was a headache.” Shaw's voice was vaguely annoyed, which was significantly better than the traces of arousal that _could_ have popped up. Charles felt Shaw's nose brush into his hair, the press of his chest against his back as he took in a breath.

“Oh?”

“Are you scrounging for information again?” His tone was suddenly distrustful and brittle. Charles felt him start to pull to his full height behind him, the fingers on his wrist hitched just a bit tighter.

 _Easy._ He kept his voice light. “Not at all.” He paused, waiting, and when no accusation was forthcoming he pressed on. “Besides, it isn't as though any information would do me any good, is it?”

Shaw's fingers stretched out across his stomach and heat seeped through the fabric. He forced his breathing steady, trying not to twitch the wrist Shaw still had hold of. Time was sucked into a vacuum between them and just when he was on the teetering edge of being certain he'd gone too far, Shaw's lips found his neck again. He tilted his head forward and exhaled slowly.

“Perhaps not,” Shaw agreed. The body pressed to his relaxed, pressing closer to his backside, and Charles braced his free hand against the bookshelves to keep from leaning into them. Shaw wasn't using his teeth anymore, just touching light kisses up to the base of his hairline and down to the collar of his robe. “Now that my second-in-command is recovered, there's work to be done further north before the winter months set.”

“It's October,” he replied, keeping his tone schooled. “Winter will already have begun setting up there, won't it?”

He didn't need to ask, but it was best to feign some ignorance.

“All the more reason to go now. My men are used to the chill, and my Second knows the terrain. They won't be expecting it.”

“Your Second,” he murmured. “That's...who you married Raven to, yes?”

“The same.”

Shaw hadn't talked much of this second-in-command of his, not even a name. All Charles knew were vague rumors, which he did his best to ignore. The ones that reached Westchester would paint the infamous Black Knight as Shaw's Second, but there was nothing definite in that. It could have just been rumors of a particularly powerful knight when his real Second could have been in the shadows.

“Would you tell me about him?” He asked only after Shaw had started after his neck again, his hand threatening to dip just a bit lower. His pinky had already stretched past the line of his hips, tapering over his pelvis—it stopped with the question. “Just—” Charles licked his lower lip. “Well, the man _is_ my brother-in-law now. I'm only curious after my sister's well-being.”

Suddenly Shaw yanked on his wrist, pulling him away from the bookcase hard enough to make him stumble in an awkward circle. He didn't have time to collect himself before he was pressed back against it, the shelves digging unevenly into his backside. Shaw shoved his wrists against the wood hard enough to make them ache all the way to his fingers. He turned away out of instinct just seconds before Shaw's breath hissed against his jaw.

“ _Liar_.”

“I'm—”

“Do you truly think you can fool me with such a juvenile trick? That I'll talk you right into the affections of another?”

“No!” He gritted his teeth. “You're _paranoid_.” Of course, Shaw did seem to think that the way to foster love was to blind him to the rest of the world and force himself on him night after night. Was it such a stretch, then, to think that he would be paranoid that _hearing_ about another would kindle feelings?

Shaw squeezed his wrists hard enough that he the bones ground together. He arched, instinctively driving a knee into Shaw's thigh. A wild sound—possibly a snarl—came in reaction, but Shaw loosened his grip at least enough that Charles could move. He didn't have nearly enough space to yank away, to try to bolt, but that wouldn't have ended well anyway. It hadn't in the past, it wouldn't now.

He reached forward instead, finding Shaw's shoulder, tracing over the ornate garment to his neck then up to his jaw. Heart thudding in his chest, he pressed his palm to the hard line, fingers grazing against his earlobe. Shaw froze under his touch, tense.

Then his jaw relaxed, just a bit.

 _You've got his attention._ He exhaled slowly. _Careful, now._

“Calm down,” he said. When the tendons of Shaw's jaw tensed again, Charles realized he'd been too authoritative. “Easy, I just want you to relax.”

He couldn't see Shaw so he had to base it off of other things. The wash of breath against his face, the tension in the air, the grip on his wrist. Truthfully, it was easier to watch out for those things than it was learning to navigate the suites. All the time spent in bed with Shaw had left him unfavorably tuned to them.

Some of the stress ebbed away; a few more beats of pause and Shaw relaxed the hold on his wrist without letting go completely. Charles swallowed, trying not to think about how he looked right now, and instead just focused on steadily moving his hand back through Shaw's hair, stroking his thumb over the shell of his ear. If he had the capability to weave calm into his mind then he would have been taking full advantage. As it was, he just had to use his touch and, maybe, his voice.

“See?” He said, struggling to keep his voice soft. “Paranoid.”

Shaw made a distasteful sound, but his grip relaxed on his wrists until they were cascading down his arms, shoulders, and sides. They settled on his hips, no longer pinning him to the line of shelves behind him, and Charles let out a long breath through his nose. The breath on his cheek disappeared and he faced forward again, tilting his head down a little as he moved his other hand to Shaw's shoulder. Shaw pulled him closer, nuzzling his nose into the top of his head, and Charles forced himself to stroke his fingers along to the back of his neck.

“It isn't unfounded for you to be curious,” Shaw said, after a long moment passed between them. Charles noted that it was distinctly not an apology for the overreaction or the fading ache in his wrists. “He's your family now, I suppose.”

Charles nodded, letting his hand slide down to rest against Shaw's chest, every movement careful and concise. “Exactly. Can you really fault me for wondering? It wasn't as though I asked to see him...”

Shaw's fingers tightened on his hips, though not nearly enough to hurt, before sliding around him completely. A line formed between their bodies as he was held close, Shaw's chin resting on his head. An added bonus, however slight, was that the inability to see still carried some detachment with it. He set his hands on Shaw's shoulders, staying still in his hold until a bit more strain ebbed away.

After a few minutes in dragging silence, Shaw spoke. “He's a knight in my service. I rescued him when he was seventeen from one of the savage tribes in the northwest.”

Charles absorbed the information like a thirsty man took to water. It wasn't much, it wasn't anything really, but it was new and that made it exciting in its own right. Plus the man was Raven's husband now, and Charles did feel some entitlement to the information.

“Is he from the north, then?” He kept his voice light and tentative, not wanting to seem too interested. “You said that he knew the northern terrain and I can't imagine a tribe from the northwest would come all the way down here.”

There were a few groupings of less conventionally civilized people scattered around the continent, though it wasn't common for them to be hostile so long as their territory wasn't threatened. Sometimes there were a few sporadic uprisings, Charles learned from the history books more than experience, but other than that they were generally peaceable. Even if there was an uprising, it was unlikely they would have come this far southeast to attack villages so close to the capitol of Shaw's empire.

“Yes.”

Shaw's confirmation was almost a joke, given his own assessment, but he nodded again.

Given that extracting information from Shaw was like extracting teeth from a bear, he decided not to test his luck with any further questions. The facade seemed to be working nicely, though he had to confess that he was in very innocent territory at this point. There was no telling how well he could keep it up if Shaw started pushing at him. He hadn't reached that far in his manipulation skill set yet.

He'd need a distraction, then, if he wanted to keep putting that off. “Do you really have a headache?”

“A bit.”

Shaw didn't even _sound_ suspicious, like the slightest show of reciprocated care had robbed him of all that previous paranoia. Charles tried not to let himself believe that it would be as easy as it seemed—for all he knew, Shaw was luring him into a similar trap.

“There's a couch in here, isn't there?”

Tension. _What set the blighter off this time?_

“How did you know that?”

 _How do you think I knew?_ “I've been trying to memorize the rooms. I ran into _something_ big. Was it not a couch?”

That, at least, wasn't entirely a lie. He tried to understand the perimeter of a room before he worked out where things were in the center of it and he hadn't gotten to the couch yet. He'd been too distracted with the books thus far, though he had run into something. Whether or not that was a couch, he really didn't know—at least until right now.

Shaw lifted his head and Charles could feel him twist to look behind him. “No, it is. I suppose I just...hadn't expected you to note such a thing.”

“I have to note everything,” he murmured, to himself.

“What?”

“Nothing of consequence,” he replied. He kept his hands on Shaw's shoulders as he twisted back around. “I was going to suggest we have a seat. You could talk about it, if you like.” He paused. “Or just rest.”

Silence dragged between them and, once again, he could practically hear Shaw's mind turning over the offer, trying to find some ulterior motive to it. Charles didn't know what he could possibly find, running back through everything leading up to this point. Nothing.

“You don't want the mask off first?”

He paused, pretending to consider. “I don't mind it, for now.” He bit his tongue before he could tack on a courteous ' _if you don't_.' Shaw already had a well-established penchant for his eyes, and he needed this distance established by not being able to see.

Another thoughtful pause. He just kept his head tilted down, breathing evenly against Shaw's chest and feeling the circulation brush back against his lips. Then: “All right.”

Shaw took his hand, leading him back towards the couch. His frequent cruelty didn't extend into this—Shaw never intentionally led him into anything like walls or furniture. Charles felt he could be trusted for that small thing, at least.

He took a seat, feeling along the smooth surface until he found a corner he could move himself to prop his back against. It wasn't a conscious effort to be away from Shaw because he'd already predicted how this would layout. The head that ended up in his lap a second later was, therefore, not all that surprising. He drew a steadying breath, moving his hands slowly so one found its place on Shaw's chest and the fingers of the other smoothed through his hair. He hadn't been prompted, but he found it significantly easier to do when he didn't have to _see_.

In the end, running his fingers through the invisible strands of hair was little more than a gesture to soothe his own nerves. Shaw elected not to talk, instead drifting until Charles was aware of the steady rise and fall of the chest under his hand. Asleep, or something very close to it.

He had to bite his tongue to keep silent and the insides of his cheeks to keep from smiling. It was too easy for Shaw to deceive him when he couldn't see, to be lying there with his eyes open, watching. But _it had worked_. Like so many legends of playing a tune for a beast, his minor cooperation had worked splendidly. He was on the right path to assuring his life took a more favorable turn.

\--------

It wasn't until Shaw called a meeting that Erik realized what had been missing from his life and, quite possibly, making it more unbearable than it otherwise would have been. The arrival of the Xavier siblings had upset something fundamental about his relationship to his King—that fundamental thing being war.

Erik knew it wasn't fair to say that the presence of the siblings in Lourdes had stopped Shaw from expanding his territories further, but it had put a lull where one was unexpected. It was something of a relief to know they would be getting back on track after all. He couldn't imagine himself or his king settling completely just because of marriage.

Erik had known about the campaign to the north for some time now, of course. The venture had been specifically put off when he'd been too injured to lead the way through territory he remembered despite not seeing it for the past fifteen years. It was that fact that had led Shaw east instead, to Westchester and tamer terrain. All things considered, Erik was beginning to realize just how much of his life had hindered on that one instance of protecting his King from the enemy's sword.

“We'll be moving out by the end of the month,” Shaw explained. Over the past few hours pieces had been moved across a large map that took up most of the conference table. Now they rested in the proper formations, formations that would lead them to victory when the time came.

The northern territories were tricky not only due to the onset of winter but the fact that the terrain had unexpected ridges across its surface. There were ways to navigate around the hills and mountain passes, but it took some knowledge of the land to begin to navigate them. Most conquests in the past had attempted straight-through cuts—that had been in the King's original design as well—but it didn't work that way. Straight through to the heart of the north was too rigorous to be challenged. Particularly with a large ground battalion.

Erik had, in essence, been training for this day for the past fifteen years. He knew that one of Shaw's most thought-out uses for him pertained to his childhood as a Northerner. Fifteen years hadn't erased what he'd known then, even if the information was rusty and a touch out of date. The north was resistant to change, in both its land and its people, so he was of use.

As the meeting wrapped up, the other knights began filing out. They would spend the rest of October assembling their men and making sure that everything was in order to move out by the specified time. Each one seemed relieved to have Erik back in his place, from what he could tell, but he took it with a professional stance rather than a personal one.

He wasn't close with any of the generals in particular, though he knew extensive details about many of them. War itself was more uncertain than any land mass, and the idea of families being told that their husbands, brothers and sons had died by someone impartial to their lives just never sat well with him. Shaw had painted him something of a sentimentalist for it, but there wasn't any malice behind it.

Once the others left he felt a hand clasp onto his shoulder. “Excellent work today, Erik. Your strategy is exceptional, as expected.”

He turned around, a quick nod being the only real display of appreciation. “Thank you, my liege.”

Shaw smiled. Erik was never really sure how to feel about the expression, but he found it stranger to see now than he had in quite sometime. The slight pressure on his shoulder guided him out of the room, his King following right behind.

“I feel we haven't had a chance to properly talk since my return,” he began. “How are things with Raven? You seem to have tamed her quite a bit since that first breakfast.”

Conversations with the King were never really as inviting of jest as he liked to pretend. After so many years at his side, Erik knew it was more of a mechanism to get people to relax around him. It was far easier to get the information he wanted if he could put up a facade that said there would be no ill-will for it. Though why Shaw was so interested in his marriage, Erik couldn't fathom.

“Something of the sort,” he replied. “She's adjusting.”

“Yes, of course.”

Raven _was_ adjusting. Since he'd given her that stationary, things had smoothed over quite a bit between the two of them. The visit to the town had done wonders as well, and he was certain she was finding some companionship in Henry. All for the best, in his mind, if it helped her to find her place here. Her life had closed off to some choices and privileges, but he wanted to think that it had opened to others as well. She'd drive him mad otherwise.

“How's your consort?” Erik dared. He didn't have to pretend not to be interested, he asked more for Raven's sake than his own curiosity. She was still his primary concern, even if it was in a significantly different way from how the King had taken to Charles.

“He's well.” The answer was tight but, Erik noted, not angry or bothered. The King smirked at him. “He's adjusting.”

Erik couldn't fight back a slight chuckle at that, though it never served to break the tension between them completely.

He was surprised to feel Shaw's hand on his shoulder a second later, then, pulling him to a stop. He turned around, finding his King's features not so much pensive as, perhaps, dark. Dark in a way he'd never seen before. “Erik, I trust I can put some stake in you as a confidant, if needed?”

 _Well, this is new._ He frowned. “Yes, of course.”

His stomach twisted into knots about where this could go and how very little he wanted to hear of anything pertaining to the relationship between Shaw and Charles. Sometimes that scream from three weeks ago still rang through his ears. It had wrapped around his mind, tensing his limbs and stealing sleep sometimes—he hadn't known for sure what caused it, and his mind refused to labor in that direction.

Fingers flexed against his shoulder, non-threatening, before he was guided along again. It didn't take long before they were in the library. The King rarely spent time there, and Erik had to fight back the feeling that his personal sanctuary had been violated by his presence in it.

He stood back, watching the King move to lean against his desk. Shaw spoke after a second of pause: “Charles is...”

Erik swallowed, fairly certain this was going to be something he did _not_ want to hear. Why did he always end up in situations where he couldn't refuse? Even if refusal was the nearest thing to guaranteeing his own sanity. The best he could do was shift, folding his arms behind his back, to distract himself.

“...remarkably calming.”

A small mark of relief ran through him, inclining him to fold his hands behind his back so he wasn't so obvious about it. “Calming, my liege?”

“Yes.” There wasn't a distant, dreamy look in his King's eyes for whatever affects it was Charles had over him. Erik was thankful for that, immensely so. “It's almost otherworldly, if I'm completely honest. It's as though he has some sort of...sway over the mind.”

Erik didn't dare compare the King's consort to so many women he'd met, capable of infatuating a man with just a look or a remark.

“Some people have calming presences, I suppose.” He didn't mean to sound skeptical, but Shaw turned a sharp, bemused eye to him.

“Do you doubt me?”

“I—” He frowned. “Certainly not.”

“Of course not,” Shaw reiterated. “That would be ridiculous.”

“Indeed.”

A new sort of tension steeped the air between them, tainting it in a way that made Erik aware of the ache in his shoulders and the fact he lacked a proper reason to excuse himself. He wasn't afraid of the King, not after all these years, but one didn't have to be afraid of something to be aware of the predatory way it looked at you.

“Perhaps you doubt him, then?”

He sighed as inoffensively as he could. “I doubt neither of you, Sire. I'm certain he could tame Hellfire if you entrusted him with such a task.”

The King's eyes seemed to brighten. “What an interesting idea.”

Erik blinked. “What?”

But just as quickly as the blaze of interest was there, it was gone again. Shaw waved his hand, as though he could dismiss the idea from the very air around them. “Nothing, nothing. Tell me, has the Lady met Tristan yet? The stable hands say you've been taking him out more regularly now.”

Erik did not believe for a second that he hadn't just put Charles in some sort of danger by mentioning Hellfire, but the subject was discarded too quickly to bring it up without question. He let his shoulders sink slowly, digging his thumb into his wrist. _It isn't my concern anyway,_ he argued.

“No, not yet,” he replied. “I've considered taking her down to the stables before the campaign.”

“I think that would be wise.” The King smiled.

Used to the cryptic air about Shaw's words and gestures, Erik just hummed a minor agreement. It was true, after all, and he refused to let his thoughts taper off to his mother or any other widow left behind by a war. He supposed, distantly, it was why he'd taken Raven down to the city. She needed somewhere to escape to beyond these walls, with people and life, and she needed to learn to do it without prompting. Erik hoped he could give her that much.

“I suppose that means you'll be spending time with your consort in the approaching weeks, then?” Erik asked. He wasn't sure why his mouth and mind refused to let him call Charles by name when there had been no specific ban on it.

The King chuckled. “Naturally. Though perhaps not as much time as I would like. I do still have to make sure everything is in order. The last failing cries of diplomacy, and all that.”

Erik knew very little about the proper political side of things. Treaties and negotiations had never really been the King's preference anyway, but that certainly didn't stop people from trying to reason with him. He could only assume, however, that the one being discussed now had nothing to do with the north. The territories were often far more stubborn and resolute in their ways, if only because they were constantly contending with unease from rogue tribes for land and resources.

He nodded. “Well, I won't hold you any longer, then.”

“Get some rest in the coming weeks, Erik,” Shaw called, as he was leaving. “And be sure you take the Lady to meet Tristan. You never know when you won't return from battle.”

Erik paused in the open doorway, feeling the words seep into his chest the way Shaw hadn't managed to do in years. He drew in a steady breath, pushed it aside, and turned to nod over his shoulder just once. He thought he caught the glimmer of a smile as he closed the door behind him.


	6. Chapter 6

“Wow, all the way from Westchester.”

Henry sounded absolutely astounded by the fact that her homeland was so far away, as though he hadn't been walking through the shopping district telling her all the other reaches of the world that the wares were from. She just nodded, smiling lightly. His fascination with things was appealing in its own way.

“I'd heard, of course, I mean—but with how protective the King is with that sort of information,” he mumbled. “I try not to put a lot of stock in gossip.”

“Somehow that doesn't surprise me,” she replied. Despite all his flustering and verbal trips, Henry was very much interested in the facts and little more. But he was passionate, too. It was a pleasant offset to Erik, who's primary emotion seemed to be bursts of anger or frustration.

“Is that a good thing or...?”

She felt his uncertain eyes on her so she laughed. “Yes, Henry, it's a good thing.”

She patted his arm in what she could only hope to be a reassuring gesture. He seemed relaxed by it, a hesitant smile tugging on the edges of his lips.

When they got back to his shop she took time to look over all the carefully labeled bottles of liquids and powders. For all the commotion and smoke of their first meeting, it was a bit surprising to discover that Henry was really a man of medicine, more or less. She'd been expected something a bit more mysterious or questionable, but most of his mixtures had purposes of healing.

“Did you ever figure out that concoction you were working on last time?” She turned around once Henry hung up his jacket, then turned to help her take hers off. She didn't need the help, but she wasn't about to refuse.

“Huh?” She smiled at his distraction. “Oh, yeah. Worked like a charm. His stomach problems were gone within the week.”

“That's good to hear.”

She turned around once her coat was off, running her fingertips over the shelves. Henry's shop was small and though she knew that he lived in the back, behind the black curtain, she'd never seen it, but she'd turned it into something of a goal. This one seemed far more achievable than any of the others she had come up with since being here.

“So.” Henry scratched the back of his neck. “You're sure that—”

“ _Yes_.” She knew where this line of thought was going. “Henry, if he really didn't want me to see you then why would he walk me down here?”

He didn't answer aside from looking off to the side and she quite imagined that he was thinking of a great many ways that Erik could get them both in trouble for adultery. Which was absurd, given that their marriage was a sham anyway. Not that Henry seemed willing to believe that.

She walked forward to touch his cheek, an action that made his full attention jerk back to her. “Erik practically introduced us, and he's probably glad to have me out of his hair.”

“Who in their right mind could consider you a burden?”

The words were shocking, and apparently not just to her. Henry looked bewildered, and she was quite certain it was a thought that he hadn't meant to say aloud. She felt her stomach twist into warm knots.

“I—I just mean,” he stumbled. “That is to say—”

“Finally!”

Whatever it was he was hoping to say was chased away by a sudden presence in the shop. Out of instinct they pulled away from each other and Raven pretended to be very interested in removing her gloves. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Henry straightening the front of his tunic despite the fact she hadn't done more than touch his cheek. She found that it was hard not to giggle as he moved behind the counter.

“Yes, can I—”

“Where in God's name have you been? I've been waiting for hours,” the patron snapped. Raven migrated towards a corner perhaps a bit quicker than strictly necessary, but he was gesturing widely.

“I'm sorry?” She sensed a frown in Hank's voice, but occupied herself with pretending to look at a corked bottle labeled in stiff letters as 'anise.'

“Damn right you're sorry! I'm here for that mixture I requested last week.”

Raven could tell by Henry's voice that the shouting wasn't going over well with him. He was holding his ground, certainly, but there was an uneasy edge to his voice. “Could I get your name, please?”

“You're not terribly bright for a genius.”

Raven set the bottle down a bit harder than was probably necessary. Two sets of eyes were on her when she spun around, feeling her ears burn with the attention. “Well, I think that's quite enough of that.”

The patron was looking at her with the sort of scoping gaze that implied that he both hadn't seen her there and that he was more interested in looking at her than listening to her. “Oh do you, little miss?”

“Yes, in fact, I do.” She curled her fingers in the edges of her dress, lifting it just slightly as she strode across the wooden floor.

“Raven—”

She held up a hand and Henry silenced, though she imagined it was more out of surprise than anything. “This man is brilliant in ways that your barbaric little mind would struggle for years to comprehend. The fact that you're coming to him for a commission and have the audacity to _shout_ , after he's already taken time to make whatever ridiculous thing you've asked for, is childish at best.”

The man straightened up, looking quite like he'd had enough of her, but Raven didn't back down. Her instincts told her to, the weight of so many councilmen and soldiers chiding her for being a little girl, but she ignored them. She had to. _You're stronger than you pretend to be._

“And who gives _you_ the authority to speak to me this way, trollop?”

“No one,” she replied. “But if it helps, I'm the wife of the Black Knight, second-in-command to the King of Lourdes.”

For a moment the man looked skeptical, then quite red faced, and before he could descend any further into what appeared to be a growing rage, Raven held forward her hand. Although the wedding might have been less than authentic, Erik had insisted that she kept the ring (though, she noted, not that she wear it). The rage turned to pale realization.

“That...that's a fake.”

“Is it?” She pulled her hand back, pretending to look at it as she thoughtfully twirled the band around her finger. “It looks real.”

“There _were_ rumors of a wedding last month,” Henry added, sounding a bit more confident. “Though, I try not to put a lot of stock in gossip.”

Raven couldn't keep from smiling at him out of the edge of their shared peripheral vision, and Henry reciprocated, though his gaze dropped to the floor a few moments later. She straightened her stance, forcing her attention back to the matter at hand.

“If you'd like to wait, he's supposed to pick me up soon—”

“No!” The man glanced between the two of them, and Raven estimated that he was still skeptical but he wasn't going to risk it. It seemed a bit strange—a number of people in Westchester had dreamed up weddings with her or Charles to get things, though usually it was hardly a punishable offense—but if it was going to make things easier for them then she wasn't going to complain.

The patron's eyes drew back to Henry, voice now significantly more tame. “Kelly. Last name is Kelly.”

Henry nodded, stepping back to peer at the shelves that lined the underside of the stand before extracting the pouch and a small slip of paper. He passed them to the man who did little more than murmur a quick 'thank you' before heading towards the door, practically walking backwards to keep the two of them in his sights until the door closed behind him.

Henry let out a breath. “I can't believe you did that.”

“I can't believe he believed it.” She frowned a little, letting her attention fall back to Henry. He was leaning against the wall behind his counter, hair a little mussed from where he'd just run his hand through it. “People used to play pranks like that in Westchester all the time. Hardly anyone believed them.”

For a moment, Henry looked like he was surprised by her confession, like there was an unexpected story in her words, but before she could ask about it he was diverting his attention off to the side again. “No one risks that here. Who knew what the repercussions would be if Shaw or Erik found out.”

“Erik's harmless, really.” She smiled, looking back at the ring.

Henry snorted. “You'd be the only one to think that.”

“Of course I would.” She rolled her eyes. “I'm pretty sure we're the only two people in this entire city to know his real name.”

“I like it that way.” She twisted around to see Erik in the door—how had he managed to open it without the bell chiming? “It's more intimidating.”

“I hardly think you need the help,” Henry murmured, just to sputter a second later when Erik fixed him with little more than a raised brow. He really was too easy.

“I'm with him on that,” Raven tacked on helpfully. “Time to go already?”

He shrugged, hands fixed behind his back. “Only if you want to go to lunch with your brother.”

The same sparking interest that usually came from having Charles mentioned crept up her shoulders, forcing her posture to straighten. It reminded her a little bit of the way some of the horses would react when she stepped up to the fence in Westchester, excited and expecting a treat.

It was very uncommon for Shaw to allow Charles to eat lunch with them. Their interactions were limited to breakfast and dinner, with Charles smuggled away in Shaw's suite for much of the afternoon while Shaw dealt with other things. Things, she noted, that were requiring more and more of Erik's presence as of late. Though she tried to ignore the feelings, she sensed something big approaching to disrupt what unsteady calm her life had settled into.

She'd already eaten with Henry, of course, but the prospect of seeing Charles wasn't easy to pass up. She turned around towards her companion as of the past few hours. “I'm terribly sorry, I know I said I'd stay longer but—”

“It's no problem.” Henry smiled, but she was not entirely convinced. “I should, uh, probably work on some other commissions, anyway.”

“You're certain?”

His chuckle was light, a little brittle but more reassuring than the smile had been. “Yeah. It doesn't look that good spending so much time with a married woman anyway.”

Erik snorted softly behind her, but she ignored him for a moment. Her feet carried her closer to Henry without really thinking about it.

“I promise I'll visit again soon.”

She was sincere, of course, and he supposed that she sensed that because the smile he gave was now a touch brighter than it had been the first time around. He just nodded, but she took some comfort in it before turning back to Erik, glancing over her shoulder one more time before the door swung closed behind them.

\--------

The October sky was crisp and blue outside the window, the sun hanging in just such a way that Charles couldn't see it but it was streaming mid-morning light through the panes of glass. It wasn't often that he woke up before Shaw, given that the monarch usually had business to attend to before Charles had any cause to wake up. Back in Westchester he roused himself from sleep around the same time, but now there was no call for it.

He slid out from under the heavy arm draped over his stomach, slow and careful as he watched Shaw's face. The man shifted, but just rolled over and tugged the blankets up before drifting back to sleep. Charles hadn't expected that Shaw's late night would have affected him this much, but he was certainly going to take advantage of it. His new life heavily relied on being something of an opportunist.

It had also forced him to be simultaneously comfortable in and disgusted by his own naked body. He tried not to be so aware of it as he made his way over to the wardrobe, pulled out the blue and black one—it was his favorite, if he had any—and slipped it on. From there he made his way as quietly to the bathroom as possible, splashing some cool water on his face to alleviate the lingering haze of sleep.

 _Small miracles,_ he mused—Shaw's late night also meant that he wasn't sticky this morning, or sore.

He kept an eye on Shaw's bedroom as he moved back to the study, letting his eyes travel over the furniture and shelves of books. He counted the steps between the door and the couch, the couch and the desk, the desk and the wall—slow, methodical, and careful. The process would, after all, be useless if he didn't keep to his natural stride.

He ran the path backwards and forwards again, mouthing the numbers silently to himself—ten between the door and the couch, six between the couch and the desk, five between the desk and the wall—until he ran it through with his eyes closed. All the careful attention in the world never made it flawless the first time, but he managed not to stub any of his toes and he only lightly ran into things. Tiny victories.

The third pass by the desk and he actually started paying attention to it, at least enough to notice the expanse of paper stretched across it. His hand bumped into one of the books holding its corners down and he nearly knocked it off the desk entirely. It certainly hadn't been there the last time he'd been in the study.

The map was of recent design, probably crafted by someone in Shaw's employ, because the reaches of his territory stretched across it with borders marked in dark ink. Lands to the North were flecked with Xs and circles, familiar lines of strategy that he recognized from his own warfare studies. The marks spanning across the paper were surreal in their exactness to the ones he'd learned of in Westchester. He couldn't say why he'd expected Shaw to use something different, some foreign, terrible glyphs that were mangled beyond any human ability to recognize.

It was probably foolish, though he liked to think of it as hopeful. One more thing to separate Shaw from the the rest of the people in this world, to make him his own distinct, monstrous being.

His mind faded to an unsteady static when he saw Westchester, the elegant scrawl of the name marred by a conquering 'x' through it. A furious pain seized his heart, making his next inhale—or maybe it was an exhale—choke in his throat. Had it been that easy? Had the takeover of his kingdom been as simple as putting an X through the name?

The abrupt wave of helpless anger nearly made him sick. His kingdom—his people—disregarded like the splatters of ink along the borders of the map, and here he stood. Captive, victimized, _useless_. It was a two weeks journey from Lourdes to Westchester and here he stood, with it under his fingertips like he was close enough to breathe its air. But they were both little more than names crossed out with a rough hand and dark ink.

“Scrutinizing my strategy, my prince?”

Shaw's voice cooled the venomous heat that had started coiling about his insides. In an instant, all of him turned to a block of ice, the flame pushed deep inside. All the cumulative rage just stilled, aware of its own pointlessness in the face of his keeper.

He didn't reply, but he didn't have to. The waves of goosebumps that formed down his shoulders and arms alerted him to every step closer Shaw got to him. His fingers curled around the quill he'd been numbly fiddling with, unaware of its presence until just now. _What are you going to do?_ A dark side of his own voice taunted from the depths of his racked mind. _Kill him?_

Shaw's hands settled on his hips from behind, pressing him into the sharp edge of the desk. Charles was distantly aware as his own fingers slipped against his once-kingdom's borders on the map. The familiar, wet heat of Shaw's mouth pressed to his neck and he was melting away, the only solid part of him was the grip he still had on the quill—it hurt.

“You're being very quiet,” Shaw murmured. “No questions this morning? Requests?”

“Westchester...” The word left him before he thought about it, on the tone and breath of some other word that suddenly regressed to the back of his mind. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the X, but he forced himself to press on. “When you have your maps redrawn—”

“It will be included in my territories, yes.”

Another unnerving sensation coursed through him, his grip tightened on the feather and he felt the muscles of his arms and shoulder and back pulling in on each other. Every nerve seemed to be screaming to turn, to embed the the thing in Shaw's eye or his throat—do _something_. Anything that was real and purposeful and could help him and Raven to escape, to go back.

“What are you thinking?” Shaw's voice was low against his ear, a steady thrum like an overturned bucket being hit. The question echoed over in his mind, folding in on itself and echoing to the point he could hear nothing but it and the taunting answer— _nothing_. He was thinking and doing nothing.

He just shook his head, staring blankly at the map under his hand.

 _You could,_ the voice in his mind whispered. _Aim for the eye—blind him, at least. That's something. That could be the start. He's tame to you now, thinks your harmless. What's the good in it if you don't use it?_

Shaw's fingers were massaging into his hips, outlining his form beneath the robes that were supposed to hide him. His teeth scraped against his neck, and he sucked in a breath. It felt rehearsed and overused, like a lie spun too many times to be believable.

 _Use it._

He tilted his head, his vision blurring just a touch as his eyelids dropped. Shaw's form sealed itself against his backside, biting at his pulse. Large hands, weights of slavery, really, slid up his sides and back down. Charles had the sense that he could wear all the robes at once and it wouldn't matter in the end. Shaw knew his body, knew him, used him, _owned_ him in any sense that mattered.

 _USE IT!_

His hand barely raised from the paper before Shaw was holding it down, rough fingers sliding between his knuckles, digging at the creases between his fingers. They pressed hard enough to cause pinpoints of blunt pain, until he spread his fingers just enough that Shaw's could slide between them. Charles watched Shaw pin his hand to the surface of the map, the heel of Shaw's hand digging into the back of his—the bones ached.

“What _are_ you thinking?”

Charles tried to decipher if it was his own dark voice or Shaw's, but it didn't matter in the end. Suddenly his face was pressed to the map, hand pinching the back of his neck hard enough to leave different sorts of bruises. He gasped, mind recoiling from some dark, lukewarm haze that it had been in. He was distantly aware of fading drums in his mind, though he couldn't recall hearing them before they were vanishing.

“Nothing.” The word tasted fuzzy in his mouth. “I wasn't—”

But he didn't know what to say, and Shaw didn't seem to care. A stunted pressure—probably Shaw's knee—pressed to the back of his thighs until he parted them. His other hand went to the desk, trying to push himself upright or away or anything other than endure this fresh wave of panic.

“Of course you weren't.” Shaw's voice was even and detached. How could he be so detached when he did this? Like he wasn't holding him down while he was struggling and fighting and choking on sounds he didn't want to let seep into the air. Shaw treated it like a game, a game that he was perpetually winning.

“I'm sorry.” The words leaped form his lips of their own accord as Shaw's free hand slid up the back of his thigh, squeezing and pulling in a way that hurt and teased. It stopped, but Shaw pressed against his back even harder, leaning over him until his weight was pinning him as well.

“Sorry?” His breath tickled the back of his ear. “Sorry for what?”

“I don't—” He didn't know. He didn't know when he said the words and something deep and sharp in his gut told him that Shaw knew that. It was the only reason he asked in the first place. A tremor ran through him, his mind and body separated from each other to such a degree that he no longer knew which to follow. His voice dropped, quiet. “I don't know.”

There was nothing for a long moment, no movement or chastising or laughing, just his body struggling for breath under Shaw's weight and against the desk. Then the hem of his robe brushed against his calf as it was pulled up slowly, and he swallowed, pressing his eyes closed as tightly as he could manage. Bones shifted beneath the skin of his hand as Shaw pressed down harder, nipping his ear hard enough to draw sting and possibly draw blood. Charles jerked, the fight resuming even as the voice inside his mind hissed at him— _useless._ Was that what it had been saying all along? He couldn't remember.

“You shouldn't apologize without reason,” Shaw snarled. “It ruins the merit of your sentiment.”

Suddenly Shaw was drawing back and it was like all the heat in his body was being extracted through his spine. Shaw just let him go, probably anticipating his boneless state as he left the study because he didn't say or do anything before he was gone. It took Charles a long few moments to try to straighten, and when he did he felt his legs suddenly falter. He caught himself on the edge of the desk.

\--------

Raven washed up and changed when they got back, running straight for the castle while he trailed behind. It didn't take long for them to get to the dining hall, her voice carrying with an unexpected cheer. He'd known that she was getting close with Henry, of course, but the poor boy had a terrible record with women, from what Erik recalled. He and Henry were not particularly close, but he knew enough about his life through heaved sighs and silent expressions to know that his effect on Raven was worth the shock Erik had received.

“I hope you don't mind,” Raven said, wrapping up the story about how she'd thrown around his reputation in the town. He felt something unwelcome constrict around his mind, some heavy and unpleasant weight.

“It's fine.”

And it was. Raven hadn't lied or said anything unfavorable. But given how little use he put in his reputation, it felt strange having someone else use it—more so when he took so little pride in it. Even he wasn't privy to all the dark corners of the full legend—mostly myth, really—surrounding his name as the Black Knight.

He felt something squeeze about his arm and turned to find Raven's hand around his bicep, pulling him to a stop with her. She was frowning at him,which wasn't so uncommon as the vague concern in her eyes. “Are you sure? I won't do it again, I just—” She stopped when he brought up his hand.

“I'm certain,” he replied. “Though perhaps you shouldn't underestimate Henry.”

Her fingers relaxed, a curious light finding her eyes. He couldn't keep the slight smile from quirking the edge of his mouth. “He's more than he seems, when pushed to the right lengths. After all, you've seen how some of the people in that district are bothered by his experiments. Isn't it a wonder how they don't just bully him out?”

He continued to the dining room as she pondered over that, though it only took her a minute or two longer to catch up. He was barely conscious of it when his hand moved to her lower back, guiding her into the room ahead of him. Less than four steps in and he met some resistance.

He bent towards her a bit. “What is it?”

Raven didn't reply, she was just fixedly looking at the head of the table and the second Erik traced her gaze he knew why: Shaw was present, and Charles was not.

“I thought you said Charles would be here,” she murmured, the subtlest hints of accusation in her tone.

“That's what I was told.” He stepped past her, heading towards the heat of the table. It didn't take standing beside Shaw to tell he was in a rather foul mood. “My liege?”

For a moment there was silence, and Erik had the time to appreciate how unnerving Shaw was when he was annoyed. It had been quite a few years since he'd seen him this way, composite and airy. There was a distinctness in the air, however, that made it obvious. He wasn't to be crossed on a regular basis, but less-so now.

Shaw's eyes went to Raven first, lingering for a moment, then moved to him. A smile chased after it, light and sharp.

“Erik. I'm certain your lady is looking at me like that due to Charles' absence.” Erik's muscles strained to something tense and ready, just in case this turned into something unpleasant. Despite the fact neither of them had been the ones to anger him, Erik knew Shaw's capacity for reprimand. “I'm afraid Charles isn't feeling well.”

He didn't wait for more information or ask further questions, just nodding before turning back towards Raven. She turned her glare from Shaw to him, though it soon slackened to something more inquiring.

“Where is he? Is he alright?”

He took a breath through his nose, tilting his chin up. “He's fine, just not feeling well, apparently. I'm sure he'll be at dinner.” Shaw would have certainly mentioned it if he had any plans otherwise.

A look passed over Raven's eyes, one that strongly told him what she wanted to say and do, but it passed without a word. He wasn't sure what to make of it, exactly, when she turned on her heel and exited the dining room leaving no destruction or need to amend things to the King in her wake.

\--------

He'd considered getting back into bed after Shaw left him for lunch, but decided against it. As unsettling as it was, the black confines of his mask were almost comforting if he avoided the unmemorized study. Instead he just took a seat on the couch, folding his legs up and wrapping his arms around them. Now that he'd gotten used to it, he found that the sense of detachment it offered allowed for some thought that he might otherwise be distracted from. It was a stretch to say that he was thankful for it, but he was struggling to keep it from being the burden his mind was convinced of.

Shaw had navigated around him with an utter lack of interest after the goings on of his study. Charles quite wanted to be thankful for it, but his mind hissed at him that any offset meant that Shaw was likely to act upon it later. He'd done rather well with avoiding particularly harsh punishments in the first rocky week of October, but the small triumphs that he'd taken such pride in before now seemed rather trivial.

He'd done nothing in his moments of isolation but try to memorize a few rooms. He hadn't tested any manner of escape or come up with a single plan. Some part of his mind would like to be convinced that Shaw had dominated what few hours of visibility he had, but that excuse mattered very little in the end. He should have been doing something to escape. He should have pressed reasoning with him or fought harder or something; something more than the nothing he had been doing.

He pressed his lips into his leg, pretending that he was staring impassively at something in the dark.

This was what his life had been reduced to—he wasn't even defiant anymore. He was palpable, like gold in Shaw's hands to be manipulated and twisted however he wanted. He'd allowed this, allowed Shaw to have him however he wanted in the hopes of making things easier on himself. How many of Westchester's army had fallen trying to protect their kingdom from Shaw's forces? He was certain none of them had thought of ways to make things _easier_ on themselves.

He'd never been the sort to like violence or battle, but he had hardly thought of himself as so frail that he would give up before it even started. Shaw's shadow over his life wasn't even compromise. It was a farce of security. He'd tricked himself—how very clever of him.

His fingers squeezed into the fabric around his legs, and he tilted the blindfold against his knee. He wasn't in the bed, but he was still sitting around waiting for Shaw to return. That was really all he did—waited. Sat idly by as days drained from his life, stretching his mind over internalized maps of his prison as though they would yield to any real benefit. Then Shaw would come back, do as he pleased with his body while Charles fought to send his mind away. To Westchester, to Raven, to what had once been his life.

 _I can't stay here._ The thought was as simple as deciding what robe he would wear and as obvious as the need to eat, but it felt far more powerful. It felt like a proper decision, rather than something he had been guided towards out of necessity. More than that, it was fact. He _couldn't_ stay here, kept in these rooms and used like a slave. Three weeks and only now did he realize there was no compromise in this situation.

He needed to escape.

\--------

Erik had been rather certain that Raven was furious with him when she pointedly avoided him for the rest of the day, save for dinner. Charles had been in attendance, as he'd promised, though he was only relieved for it. Knowing how poorly she could react, he wasn't even bothered by functioning as the bridge for their correspondence. However, the moment the meal finished she was gone again, and he departed back to his rooms.

There were any number of reasons for her silence, though Erik knew the only aspect of it that bothered him was the slight guilt. He'd been the one to go to town to get Raven, after all, and if he hadn't then she wouldn't have gotten her hopes up for seeing Charles. He wouldn't say that she had every right to be angry with him, but she had _some_ right and that was, he supposed, enough. He also wasn't supposed to care about such things. They'd done everything short of verbally agree that he was responsible for her well-being but not, necessarily, her happiness.

 _A lot of good that's doing me now,_ he thought. He gave up on trying to read his book, tossing it on the table and losing his place in it for favor of folding his arms behind his head.

He couldn't make Raven happy, that much was obvious. He could take care of her, do what he could to keep her safe and comfortable, but the things she'd decided would make her happy just weren't things he could supply. It wasn't just about Charles. It was more than that. They didn't fit together properly for her to feel content in his presence and, frankly, he didn't feel all that content in hers. Just as well when he hadn't been looking to settle down in the first place.

But he'd seen how radiant she was when she was happy, or was something close to it, and it eased some part of him to at least know that she was capable of it still. The situation she'd found herself in hadn't ruined her completely—she deserved that kind of hope. He'd do what he could, even if it wasn't much.

Naturally, though, doing what he could got far more difficult when she was angry with and avoiding him.

He started when a knock echoed through his room, pushing himself off the couch. Raven stood behind the door, her hands fisted loosely at her sides and a look of determination on her features. It felt similar to the one he'd seen on her this afternoon and, for some reason, it made him straighten his posture.

“Can I come in? I need to talk to you.”

He stepped aside without a word, closing the door behind her. She looked over his room again, as though checking to see if it had changed or maybe looking for something in particular. He couldn't tell, standing behind her.

At first he considered apologizing for that afternoon, and then considered asking her how Charles was. What he settled for was: “What do you need to talk about?”

She turned around, looking quite as though she'd forgotten he was there. He watched her move across the room, taking up the spot on the couch he'd occupied not a minute before and patting the spot beside her. He hesitated, then moved.

“I wanted to ask...” She started, looking at him quite as though she knew what she wanted to ask but then changed her mind at the last moment. She turned away, tucking some of the blonde behind hear ear. He frowned.

“What?”

A few minutes of pause. Erik was fairly certain that whatever she was about to ask wasn't something that he wanted to hear. He also had no doubt that it had to do with her brother.

“I thought that just the letters would be enough,” she explained, voice slow and careful. “I know whatever Shaw is doing to my brother is terrible—”

“You don't—” But she cut him off, insistent.

“ _Please,_ Erik, just listen.” Despite the word 'please' she didn't sound like she was begging. She sounded more like she would hit him if he didn't oblige her. He nodded, trying to relax his fingers from where they had curled into the cushion. “I know what he's doing is terrible, I can see it in the way Charles holds himself, but I thought that he'd be strong enough and maybe he could reason with Shaw. But I don't...”

Her voice trailed off, strong enough that Erik was baffled for a moment if she'd lost her thought. It wasn't until Raven's fingers twitched up to fidget with her hair again that he realized her hands were shaking. For a split second he considered reaching out to hold them, to comfort her, but he stopped. Something in the back of his mind, small but present, told him that Raven wouldn't have wanted him to anyway.

She took a breath, deep and steady: “I don't think he can handle this on his own, and the talking during meals just isn't enough anymore.”

“You want to see him,” Erik mumbled. She looked like she was surprised that he'd come to such a conclusion, but it melted immediately to something hopeful.

“Yes,” she breathed. “I _need_ to see him. To talk to him, just for a minute.”

He hated these damn requests, like it was a simple matter of persuasion. Even if it was, he'd never been terribly good at that either. There was a reason he focused on the battles and not the diplomacy. “That isn't my place. You know that.”

“I know.”

“You—what?”

He watched her gaze drop back to her hands, twisting in the soft material of her dress. “I know, but I have to ask. You're closest to him, if anyone could help me then it would be you, wouldn't it?”

His throat constricted unexpectedly, probably as his mind's preventative measure from saying something that he hadn't thought through entirely. Thinking things through had never been his strong-suit, except perhaps for battle strategies and this was nothing of the sort.

He'd been expecting the same back-and-forth that he usually endured in these moments: Raven would ask and he would refuse and she would insist that he was her husband, required to help her out of some obligation that didn't exist. She never accepted his position in Shaw's hierarchy before, and he'd been fairly certain that she never would. Where she got the idea that he had some remarkable sway over the King, Erik would never know.

But that was rather the opposite of what she had done, which was an attempt at understanding that he was just as helpless in this situation as she was.

He swallowed after a few moments, his throat reluctantly relaxing. “No argument that I'm your husband, bound to do as you desire of me?”

She laughed lightly, but there was frailty to the sound. “Because that's worked so well for me in the past?”

The sound wasn't quite the relief he might have hoped for, but there seemed to be some measure of understanding in it. She would undoubtedly be mad the second he shot her down completely, refuting his ability to do anything despite how closely she perceived him to be to the King. However, he couldn't overlook this moment of strength either, despite how much he wanted to. It was quite like a message had finally been conveyed—an understanding that hadn't been present for the past three weeks.

He rested his elbows on his thighs, wringing his hands together. “The King won't be reasoned with concerning your brother, Raven. He's very set.”

“How can you—”

“I tried to see if he would allow you to write more formal letters to each other,” he confessed. “That was the original intent of the stationary. But he refused.”

There had been no justification, just a simple refusal. Erik had made only two attempts to press the issue, but he could sense the King's growing impatience with him and he wasn't about to put himself or Raven at any further risk when there was opportunity to avoid it. He'd seen no point in bringing it up.

He glanced at her, now watching him with a look he couldn't read entirely from his awkward view, but he didn't want to face her full-on either. He looked back at his hands, squeezing them. “I'm sorry.”

Another silence stretched between them, seeming longer than any of the previous ones had. When she spoke her voice was fracturing along the edges despite attempting to hide it with quiet words. “There isn't anything, then? Nothing you can do?”

“No.”

Neither of them said anything as she stood up and left. Erik felt words bubbling in his chest, but he didn't know what they were or what good they would do. He waited until the door was closed before scrubbing his hand over his eyes, mind suddenly falling limp like a skewered body.

It took him a long time to stand again, moving to the bathroom to wash his face. There was a knock at the servant's door when he was looking himself over in the mirror. A moment later a mess of red hair peaked in, emitting a startled sound when he was standing right there.

“Sorry,” Sean said. “I was just—”

“Go ahead then,” Erik murmured.

Over the few minutes that followed, the bath in his room was steadily filled with water that curled a forest of steam up into the air. Sean wasn't the only one to carry pails of warm water from the kitchens to his room, though Erik suppose he'd just been the unlucky soul who had to peer into his room after knocking. He was well aware that they played an assortment of games to see who would have to do it, and took no offense.

“How's Lady Frost?” He asked when Sean returned again. Erik leaned in the doorway to the main suite, arms crossed. It was hard to bite back a slight smirk at the subtle flinch.

“She's been in a mood ever since the marriage,” Angel answered as she crossed the threshold of the room. “You know she's had her eye on the King for years.”

“Precisely why I asked, of course.”

When the last pail was emptied he passed the three—Darwin had also helped, albeit quietly—a few coins. It wasn't much, Erik wasn't rich, but it was enough to make sure he stayed in good favor with all of them. They were invaluable eyes and ears around the castle, and far less loyal to the King than some of the guards. Erik might've disapproved if he thought any of them were going to be a threat, but it seemed unlikely. They were all paid well here.

He tilted his head against the back of the basin, the water hot enough to twinge his skin red but not to properly burn him. Some tension eased loose of his muscles, but in the silence he was left alone with Raven's voice hovering about his mind.

The past week had been going too well for him to think for a second that something wouldn't come up, naturally, but the manner in which she'd brought it up was certainly more pleasant than being demanded. There was no longer that notion that he was obligated to please her just because of some ceremony that neither of them had been all that keen to in the first place—he appreciated that. But then, she still relied on him to some extent and he supposed she wasn't out of her bounds in doing so.

 _You're closest to him, if anyone could help me then it would be you, wouldn't it?_ She was right, of course, but she seemed to think it meant far more than it did. He had no idea of how such arrangements worked in Westchester, but Erik wasn't in that sort of favor with his King. He was prized as a knight and a soldier, his opinions valued when it fit the King's needs, but beyond that...well, there wasn't anything beyond that.

He closed his eyes, reaching back in an attempt to rub some of the stiffness out of his shoulder, flinching when he came across a tight knot that refused to let go. He gave up after a few minutes, opening his eyes slowly, half-expecting something else to be above him aside from the ceiling.

Nothing was, of course.

It wasn't the first time someone had attempted to use him to persuade the King, of course. He was used to the requests—but never for something like this. The look in the King's eyes when he was around Charles was something he'd never seen before, and he wasn't quite sure what to think of it. He knew too little of Charles to wonder what about him could have captivated the King so entirely. Shaw had been swept up in power and claiming territories with such a fevered look in his eye, but never another person. Not since Lourdes.

Did Charles remind him of his late wife? _It's possible._ His own memories of the late Queen, however, didn't seem in line with what he'd seen of Charles. But then, he knew very little about Charles to begin with. Raven was right that he was very tame in the instances that they'd seen him—what was hidden beneath all that dispassion? Lady Chantel had been a passionate woman in her life, holding her own against the King when the situation called for it. Charles was utterly submissive—frail, even, in the way he held himself and the lightness about him. Erik had a hard time believing that the Lady would have taken this treatment the way Charles was.

 _You don't even know my brother._ Raven's voice again, echoing through his mind and making him scrub his hand down his face a moment later. That was true, above all else. He hadn't so much as heard Charles' voice in the weeks that they'd been here. Just a few more of them and it will have been a month since they arrived.

A month. A proper month as a married man and he knew next to nothing about his bride or his—for all reality—brother-in-law. It got harder every day to strangle down his curiosity. Raven hadn't even asked out of sheer desire, but was instead concern. Whatever changes she had seen in Charles as of late had been enough to worry her, truly, although he couldn't claim to know to what ends. He didn't sense that she was lying, and one meeting wouldn't be enough to conspire a proper escape. Was there _really_ nothing he could do?

He had to, of course, be going out of his mind to even think about it. But his mind tugged him back to those small smiles Raven sometimes had, where it seemed like everything was genuinely alright for one fraction of time. It wasn't as though the King would suffer terribly if they had one meeting, after all. If it turned out to be harmless—which he would make certain of—then perhaps both of them would be more willing to settle into their roles. The King could afford to be less possessive over his consort when Charles accepted his place, if only for his sister's sake.

Though, he was making quite a few leaps and bounds in judgment for someone that he'd never spoken to. Raven was only as willing to stay as Charles was, and that _scream_...He pressed his eyes closed, trying to force it back out despite the fact it still chased his dreams sometimes. Not every night, but often enough to know that it had been added to a rather long list of things that made his stomach twist in the most unpleasant of ways.

But if Raven would guarantee it, then perhaps it wouldn't be such an unpleasant venture. Even if his mind was already buzzing against every loyalty he had sworn into. He was trusted for a reason, after all, and this was the highest violation of it. His mind burned with indignation—how could he even consider doing such a thing after so many years at Shaw's side? After everything that the King had done for him?

He didn't even attempt to answer the question as he got out of the cooling bathwater, skin prickling in the immediate contact with the air. Drying off and redressing for bed provided enough mindless distraction for him to chase away the mere idea. It was treason, perhaps not of the most severe level but treason all the same. And treason for what? The suspicions of a child who, up until recently, had been content to throw temper tantrums to get her way? He felt his face contort into something of a scowl as he pulled back the covers and slipped into bed, the room submerged in darkness.

His mind went to battle tactics and the approaching campaign instead, things that soothed him with their familiarity and made it far easier to drift to sleep. War was concrete in its intangibility; it was something he understood unconditionally. His life was war, after all, and there was nothing that comforted him quite like the blind adrenaline of battle.

And yet, just before his mind sent him off into the depths of sleep, Raven's voice chased after him as he left the shore: _I don't think he can handle this on his own._

\--------

Charles realized a few days after the fact that the altercation with Shaw couldn't have come at a better time. The King was getting steadily more busy with his approaching campaign, making him blessedly scarce around the suite and giving him plenty of time to think. Shaw also was far more willing to believe that he had fallen into some sort of acceptance for his new role as a result.

He poured himself into memorizing the suite and the routes around the castle, the latter of which under Shaw's guidance but perhaps all the better for it. He learned to walk down the stairs without his sight and got progressively better at it every time they had to go down to a meal. Shaw never took him outside, however, and that complicated things exponentially. There was virtually no way he would be able to get out of the castle if he didn't know where any of the doors were.

Shaw's anger with him had steadily been ebbing out, however, and there was certainly some way he could use that to his advantage even if he hadn't realized in what way, exactly, that was. His good behavior was considered suspicious at first, but Shaw was relatively easy to placate in the end. Charles supposed, one afternoon while he sat curled in front of the bookshelves, that Shaw wanted more than just submission. Shaw wanted Charles to need him.

 _Well, that's not happening._ He'd decided that then and there.

But it was almost easy to slip back into working things, as carefully as possible, in the direction he needed them. Shaw's libido seemed equally subdued by smaller things, like resting himself across Charles' lap or shoulder massages. Simple things that would not, to anyone else, be quite so tiring but were usually enough, with Shaw, to allow him to slip into bed and off to sleep without any further intimacy. Of course, it didn't always work, but it worked often enough that the pain had time to subside, and he could properly collect himself.

There wasn't any telling, really, how Shaw would react to when he started venturing beyond his already memorized pathways. But he couldn't afford to hold off on it any further, not when Shaw was leaving in a few weeks. Despite his best attempts, committing all the details he needed to memory didn't happen over night. He needed time and repeated exposure.

“Would you mind if I tried walking alone?” He asked lightly, foot touching the hallway of the second floor. He tilted his head towards Shaw a moment later; it was out of habit that he looked down in the first place. Some aborted hope that suddenly he might be able to see through the blindfold. “Just down the hall—you'd stay with me, of course.”

He had his hand on Shaw's arm, leaving him quite blind to any attempt to gauge how much he had tensed, but he didn't rebuke it immediately. “Now, why would you want to do something like that?”

Charles shrugged, feeling the ironic presence of tension in his muscles as he tried to seem nonchalant. “This is my home now, isn't it? I'd like to become somewhat acquainted with it.” _Despite your attempts at blinding me to it._

Shaw stayed silent in contemplation, likely looking at him for the slightest incriminating detail. Charles felt his mind buzzing, aware of every slight nuance of his posture. It was worse when he couldn't see it, unaware of what he looked like to know what he should be hiding. Another controlling detail of his blindness, another category in which he was helpless. When he couldn't see how he looked, it was quite impossible to know what he should alter.

A rush of relief only came when Shaw reached up to take his hand from his arm, wrapping rough, dry fingers between his. For a moment he was confused, more so when they started walking again, but he knew that they were no longer headed towards the stairs. A second later, Shaw was moving his free hand up to the wall.

“I'll walk alongside you. You do not go any further than the reach of my arm, understand?”

He nodded, a little bothered by the fact that Shaw was clearly attempting to keep him from opening any doors he might come across, but it would be good enough. At least he would have some sense of where the doors _were_ , and it wasn't like he would benefit from opening them anyway.

They walked slowly down the hallway, Shaw silent save for the touch of his boots against the stone. Charles explored and measured silently to himself, dipping his fingers over carved frames and wooden doors and the iron of handles. He had questions—was Raven on this floor? Who else stayed here? Were the rooms all suites?—but each one cast too much suspicion to be asked, so he stayed his tongue and focused. He thought about the spaces between the doors, how far they'd walked from the stairs to get to the first one—was it the first one? Shaw certainly could have walked him to any door he pleased, after all.

He knew they weren't yet to the end of the hallway when Shaw stopped. He had to stretch to reach another door, and his fingers had barely brushed the surface when Shaw gave his arm a tug—warning, but not hard. He curled his fingers back, turned around.

“The hallway hasn't ended,” he said, a touch indignant. Shaw gave his fingers a squeeze and although it wasn't painful, he was made aware of the fact that he easily could have broken his hand from that gesture alone.

“It has for you.”

A split second reaction pushed him back in Shaw's direction before he could be pulled that way like an animal on a lead. In the dark, Shaw's hand glanced across his hip to settle in his lower back, forcing him a full two steps closer than he would have liked to be. He swallowed, tried to relax even as his breath pushed his chest, his heartbeat, against Shaw.

“You're wonderfully compliant today, my prince.”

Shaw's breath tickled across his forehead just before his lips touched to it, then down between his eyes. He wasn't certain if Shaw wanted some sort of response to the claim, but he didn't get it. Their mouths met without quarrel, and Charles slipped again into the surreal. He was numb and distant as Shaw's tongue traced and parted his lips, their fingers unwrapping so Shaw could tilt his chin up. His fingers twitched at his side in some vague hint of reaction that exploded to dust behind his eyes as soon as it occurred—he remained still.

The wet curl of a foreign tongue through his mouth was familiar, and knowing that it was Shaw's made it unpleasant by matter of principle. Charles' only actions in the way of kissing back were to not try to bite him and to occasionally move his own tongue to oblige Shaw's as it roamed through his mouth. The sheer fact was that his own occupied too much space in his mouth, let alone two. There was no way to avoid him entirely, even if he desperately wanted to.

He'd faded into his usual detachment when the sound of a door startled him, instantly attempting to jerk away. Shaw's reactions were quick, though, fingers lacing through his hair and hand pressing to his back to keep him precisely where he was. Charles allowed himself the illusion of disgust by crushing his eyes closed even tighter. The curls of Shaw's tongue suddenly became languid against his own, possessive and devious in the way Charles had seen only a few cats around the stables look when they'd caught a mouse.

 _I am not a wretched mouse!_ He braced his hands against Shaw's shoulders and pushed back, though the movement was clumsy because Shaw withdrew at the same instance. _Probably to make it look like it was his idea, the blighter._ Sure enough, Shaw's arm stayed tight around his waist, unrelenting in its iron grip.

“Good morning, Erik,” Shaw said, speaking over him. Charles felt the faint dig of a chin resting on the top of his head and his entire body burned with a distinguished humiliation for it. “My Second,” Shaw murmured to him. Charles had never been told his name.

Erik didn't reply—save for a grunt and possibly some gesture that Charles couldn't begin to imagine because he didn't know him despite the fact they were, by law, family—but Charles had the distinct impression that Erik was uncomfortable. He wasn't sure why, given that Erik certainly had to be used to Shaw's possessive displays after the meals they'd eaten together, but he supposed he wouldn't be comfortable with it either, were he an outsider looking in. For a brief second he wanted to shout at Erik for having the audacity of being malcontent when it wasn't _his_ life, but then he realized he was rather an idiot for it.

“We were on our way to breakfast—Charles wanted to do some exploring. You and your lady are joining us, yes?”

 _Raven_. If Erik was on this floor, then surely Raven was as well. Even if they didn't share the same room anymore, he wouldn't have put her that far from him. Charles swallowed, wondering if Raven was there—had she seen? He nearly choked on his shame.

“Excellent. Where is she?”

He tried, as quietly as possible, to heave a sigh of relief. Shaw had started stroking his fingers through his hair, down the back of his neck, and resisting the urge to shudder at his touch in reproach became a new goal. That, and focusing on how ridiculous Shaw sounded speaking to himself.

He supposed Erik must have given some sort of indication in a direction, because he felt Shaw lift his head and the subtle action of a nod. He could hear the pleased smile in Shaw's tone.

“Well, we'll see you soon then.”

The form pressed to his stepped back and Charles, out of instinct, found Shaw's arm again. He walked beside him steadily, even as his breath seemed shaky for some reason beyond his knowledge. Embarrassment seemed the most likely candidate. As it was, he didn't realize until they had gotten back to the next set of stairs that Shaw hadn't turned around when he'd been speaking to Erik.

\--------

It felt a bit stupid claiming that Charles had been quiet at dinner when he wasn't allowed to speak anyway, but that was the only word that came to Raven's mind when she tried to think about it. _Quiet._ There was the lingering chance, of course, that she was basing the observation entirely on what she knew about her brother when he was permitted to be himself, entirely. It was, by far, the most practical way to go about applying the word, no matter how ridiculous it sounded in their present circumstances.

Her worry was only increased at that fact. Charles had been trying very hard to hide it, but there was only so much he could do with the weight pressing down on his shoulders. He had no interaction with anyone besides Shaw, from what she knew and how the “king” behaved around him. At first she'd thought Charles might have just been missing her but the more the weeks pressed on, the more she knew that wasn't it. He missed anyone—any interaction beyond Shaw.

Yet here she was, venturing into the city nearly every other day, free to live however she pleased within some small constraints that Erik had set up. Charles lingered in her mind, an awareness of his abysmal state constantly pressing on her consciousness like her head was under a stone. But without Erik's help...what? There was no practical way to go about seeing Charles again, reassuring him in whatever way she could offer. She didn't know this castle or its servants well enough to ask help from any others.

She put aside the book she'd been trying to read, giving up on the delicate writing and carefully woven words. She hadn't even told Charles about Henry, or about how wonderful Erik had been to her. As selfish as the thought may have been, she knew that he would be concerned for her. There was every possibility that it was one of the few things he had left to distract himself.

Almost four weeks had passed in Lourdes and only now was the reality starting to truly set in. This was what their lives had become, wasn't it? Helplessly floating near each other, the only true construct of comfort, and yet perpetually kept apart by a lingering, possessive shadow that was slowly, steadily, consuming him. All she could do was watch from the sidelines, fighting to reach for him without moving at all.

The knock on her door startled her away from the tendrils of depression, though only a bit. Moving to answer it made her aware of the weight on her limbs, almost hopeful that she had absorbed some of the exhaustion Charles must have been feeling at that very moment. All thoughts left her, save for confusion, when she found Erik waiting on the other side.

She wasn't entirely certain what to make of his presence. “Erik?”

He didn't wait for her to invite him in, but he didn't exactly brush passed her either. The half-step forward made her sweep aside in invitation as a momentary twist in her stomach made her nervous that he might have changed his mind about their present arrangement. It was funny how four weeks could seem so long and so short at the same time.

“Come to the bedroom,” he said, those twists now turning into sharp knots.

“What?” Her voice burned the inside of her throat with dread and Erik spun around, making her jump from instinct. His eyes traced over her body, but she took note that it wasn't one of lust. Rather, he seemed confused, if anything. He also looked stiff and, perhaps, a little anxious.

“It's furthest from the door.”

Only then did she comprehend how quiet his voice was, not quite whispering but secretive. Paranoia and suspicion mounted in the back of her mind but it was _Erik_. He'd taken care of her with no advances for the past four weeks; what were the chances he would try something now, of all times? She followed.

Erik dropped the curtain behind them, finally forcing her to blurt out: “What is it? You're frightening me.”

Yet again he looked at her with confusion, the edges of it slowly tainting with irritation when he must've realized how his actions looked.

“None of that,” he said, gesturing offhandedly to the bed. “I just want to talk with you.”

From anyone else, the words would not have been so comforting, but from Erik she found her shoulders dropping and the fear slipping away. He was honest, perhaps to a fault, and if he had come here with any ill-intent then she doubted he would have been so coy and tricky about it. For all his loyalty to Shaw, she couldn't help but feel that they were nothing alike.

She took a seat on the bed, patting the space beside her. “Talk then.”

Erik's weight sank the bed more than she was expecting for his side, forcing her to shift away from him a bit so they didn't end up too close as a result of tumbling into the dent he'd made. As she was moving he said something she missed, but when she thought she'd heard the word 'brother' her attention couldn't have found him quickly enough.

“I'm sorry, what?”

He'd been staring pointedly forward, but dropped his head to look at where his fingers had laced tightly in front of them. As he hesitated, she was almost taken with the urge to shake him to get her answer. Just before she gave in, though, he looked at her. The shallow gray-green of his eyes—she thought they'd been more blue-green when they'd first met—was combating with itself. At first she'd thought it was one color fighting for dominance over another but then, like a whip crack, it hit her—this conflict was far more internal.

She reached out, fingers touching his hands, feeling a coil of anticipation furl its way from her stomach to her chest.

“Erik,” she said, slowly, for he quite looked like he could be spooked out of the room by the wrong word. “What did you say?”

Another pause went between them before ending abruptly, like the proper swing of an axe to chop wood.

“I said, I think I may have found a way for you to visit your brother.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. Once again, thank you for all the comments here and on LJ, and kudos. All that lovely stuff that makes me feel like life is worth living~
> 
> A few announcements: I'm finishing up my semester, so updates will be slower than their already weekly pace. I'm also suffering from some feelings of inferiority at the moment which is making me languish over my writing and everything to do with it. Specifically with this fanfiction (have you all read Nine Eleven Ten? Or Everyday Love in Stockholm? Or Incy Wincy Spider? And tons of other excellent fanfictions out there that I don't compete with? Honestly. Why do I bother? *Rots away at pity party*). But I've also got a few other fanfictions and a secret santa to work on, so it isn't just that.
> 
> I'm hoping to beast through a lot of this fanfiction over the course of my winter break, though, so wish me luck with that.
> 
> That aside, my wonderful apartmate AffectedLine helped me with the Hank/Raven scene in this chapter. I was quite stuck, so you should all be very thankful to her for her assistance. Feel free to creep on her tumblr and leave her anon asks saying "I know what you wrote last November." Lol.
> 
> Without further lameness on my part, here's chapter 7!
> 
> \--------

October was slowly dripping towards November and Raven, for one, was thankful that Henry kept his shop as warm as he could. Even with a few more visits she hadn't yet found the right time to ask to see the back of his shop, but the chill was doing wonderful things for her confidence. She was also beginning to take note of what, exactly, Erik meant when he'd first noticed her interest in Henry. He really did seem a bit oblivious sometimes.

But Charles was on the forefront of her mind this time, which made it fairly easy not to notice the finer points of Henry's lacking awareness.

“It sounds like he was really secretive about it,” he pointed out. “Are you sure you should be talking about all this?”

The thought hadn't even occurred to her, really, in her excitement. She knew Erik was being secretive, of course, but it wasn't something one thought of while regaling something they were looking forward to. She frowned.

“Well, I trust you.”

Something passed over Henry's face that she'd come to decide was the expression that meant he had caught on to the implications of something she'd said. She wanted to roll her eyes—of course he would get one of the more _subtle_ ones—but she didn't. For one, she didn't want to discourage him when she wasn't really bothered by it, and, for another, it was adorable.

“Thanks,” he mumbled. She could see a faint touch of red to his cheeks, and, while it wasn't all that incriminating, it still made her smile. He sobered up a moment later, frowning at the floor more than he was at her. “But that wasn't really what I meant.”

“What—”

She straightened up when the bell on the door jingled with an entering customer, migrating away from the counter. It seemed silly to pretend to look at things anymore, given how often she was here. She was just making conversation with the scientist then, for as much as anyone else had the right to be concerned. There was nothing untoward about that.

It took a few minutes for the customer to leave, and they had just moved beyond the sight of the windows when Henry was talking again.

“That was more what I meant.” He sighed.

She couldn't help but wave her hand. “We were careful, it wasn't as though he heard us.”

“Maybe not, but the next one could. My shop isn't really built to keep out sound, after all.”

She watched him clean his glasses, frowning. Erik had been very cautious, of course, but they were in the castle with any number of Shaw's guards listening for the slightest upset. In the city it seemed so much less probable that someone would _want_ to get in the way.

She quirked a brow and crossed her arms. “I suppose, then, it's not unheard of for Shaw to have spies in the city?”

Henry paused for a moment before sliding his glasses back on, the gesture slow and decisive. It would have concerned her, were it anyone but Henry.

“Not _unheard of_ , no.”

“Why do you all try to make him sound like he's not as bad as he is?” She snapped, quite at the end of her rope with people who were suppressed by a tyrant even when he wasn't around. “You do realize, historically, that rebellion against an overbearing ruler has been the best way to go about fixing the situation? You're all afraid to even _talk_ about—”

“He's not really a tyrant.”

A wave of incredulity prevented her from shutting her mouth even as she watched Henry fidget, glancing towards the windows of his shop.

“ _What?_ You've—are you mad?”

“He's not,” he insisted again, though even that usually-forceful emotion was timid with him. “He's a bit—” He struggled for the word, “—violent, I suppose,” he finally finished, “but not to us. Never to us.”

He must've sensed that something was on the tip of her tongue because he spoke up again.

“Never to any of the commoners, I mean. Have you noticed the marketplace? The wares from all over the world?”

“I assumed he'd stolen them and brought them back to Lourdes,” Raven said with a frown. She didn't like where this was going.

Henry just shook his head, quickly but not violently; it was almost a twitch.

“No, the King opens up the borders for trading, lowering tariffs and offering protection for merchant caravans. He encourages his subjects to learn and grow from each other.”

“That's not the man I saw,” Raven said, eying him disbelievingly. He'd obviously been brainwashed or something.

“You wouldn't,” Henry said, and his tone softened a little in pity before returning to its usual businesslike clip. “He's merciless to the rulers and royal family; that's how he conquers countries so quickly. The commoners immediately surrender when they see the brutality he inflicts on the royal family, and then he doesn't have to turn on them. It's a brilliant strategy, really.”

She watched as a slight smile tugged on his features with the discussion, losing track of her own expression as her mind hummed with disbelief. Henry hadn't failed to notice, though, because the second he caught her eye it dropped. While she could see that he hadn't meant to laugh off her plight—he just enjoyed the logic of the strategy—this wasn't _funny_.

“Merciless to us, to my _brother_ , Henry. How can you think that's _brilliant_?”

“S—Sorry,” he apologized, ducking his head. “I didn't mean to offend.”

He didn't shy away like he was afraid of her, so much as an obvious display of apology. Something conflicted and unpleasant twisted in her gut. She was caught between knowing that Henry didn't understand Charles' circumstances and the fact that she _did_. That Charles was suffering all because of what? Aggressive politics?

A frustrated sound slipped free as she walked past him, running her hands along a shelf and letting her mind wander through the explanation Henry had just given. Could Shaw really be anything but a bloodthirsty villain? Her heart still responded with a fiery “No!” but she couldn't help but think that Henry wouldn't lie – she didn't think. Not to her, anyway. She could see the evidence around them, plain as day, the thriving market and shared wares.

But all of them were blind to Charles in a way she wasn't. In a way she sometimes, selfishly, wished she could be.

“You didn't know any better,” she murmured, finally. “Unless it's typical for him to bring back princes and marry them.”

When she turned around Henry was frowning a little, looking off at something like he usually did when he was heavily considering things. It was like he was watching something unfold in front of his eyes. “No. That was a very unusual move for him, I'll admit.”

She just nodded, definitive, and let the conversation drop where it may. She didn't want to think about her brother's situation if she would be seeing him soon, not unless Charles himself wanted to discuss it. She'd need to be in high spirits when she met with her brother, not fuming over Henry's admiration for Shaw's tactics.

A shiver running down her back gave her mind the distraction she'd found herself looking for. She rubbed her arms decisively.

“It's awfully cold,” she said pointedly, although she entertained little hope that he would get her point right away.

Henry blinked, his mind obviously still in the last conversation, then replied:

“It's going to start snowing soon.”

“I meant right _now_ ,” she said, stepping closer to him.

He looked down at the hem of her dress, then up to her face.

“Did you not bring a cloak?”

“I didn't think it would be this cold,” she said morosely. That was a half-truth, at least.

He still looked unsure. She shivered again for effect.

“The back of my shop is warmer,” he said slowly, obviously torn between propriety and concern for her health.

“Is it?” she said innocently, brightening at the prospect of warmth. She really _was_ cold. Just perhaps not as cold as she was acting.

Henry looked nervously at the doorway of the shop, then nodded in his twitchy way—like he was trying to get his hair out of his eyes, she decided—again.

“Here, come with me.”

\--------

Shaw had been a bit more lenient with letting him explore in the days that followed, though only a bit. He was never allowed down to the door that he knew to be Erik's now, which really didn't matter all that much aside from peaking his curiosity as to why. Instead his explorations just ran along the doors in the hallways on one side, then Shaw would lead him across to the other on their walk back to the stairs. Sometimes he would be pulled into a kiss or a fresh bruise on his neck, but thankfully no more doors had opened while it was happening. Charles was certain that it was what Shaw was hoping for.

He still enjoyed resting on the couch in the study when he was alone, even if Shaw had long since caught onto it being the first place to look for him. It smelled the least of him and was instead flooded with the comfort of old books and sometimes charred firewood. Out of all the rooms in the suite, it was also the one place where Shaw hadn't slid his hands or his knee or his cock between Charles' legs. He'd tried, once, but Charles had insisted they move it to the bedroom—he didn't want to taint what little sanctuary this place offered.

He'd already run his fingers over the spines of the books, the maps still on Shaw's desk. Since their altercation—a week ago, now—he hadn't been in the study on his own. He wondered, when he wasn't thinking about the finer details of his escape, if the maps had been replaced. He could picture the dark borders of Shaw's territory encompassing Westchester—spitefully he wondered if it would be renamed despite the fact no other territories taken had.

The door opening was no longer a sound he listened to passively, but rather one that he was jerked back into himself for. He traced Shaw's steps across the floor, the dull impact of his boots against stone, and was somewhat surprised when he headed immediately for the bedroom. In the far reaches of his mind—the broken, fragmented parts that tried to piece his situation into something that might have been good or acceptable—he thought that a good spouse would go inquire if something was wrong or troubling him.

However, the majority of him had no desire to be a good spouse and it never would. Not to this monster, at least.

All of that aside, it only took a moment for Shaw to call after him: “Charles, go to the vanity.”

Warm resistance prickled from his stomach to his arms, wrists, and the very tips of his fingers; he quelled it down. Playing nicely was the only way he could keep Shaw from taking ridiculous measures to secure him when he went to war in two weeks' time. He'd already threatened to starve him once, Charles had no problem believing that he would be bound to the bed if Shaw had even the slightest suspicions about him now.

He sat on the plush vanity chair and slid his hands onto the cool surface. Only a half-foot away from the edge was the metal box his mask was kept in, he traced his fingertip over the familiar square shaped by its edges. It was locked even when his mask wasn't in it, and he ran his finger over the dip where the keyhole was, his other hand running along one of the hard angles of the lid.

The part of his mind that was becoming dedicated to its task of tracing movements through the room was aware of Shaw stepping up behind him. For the rest of him, it took a moment—and the press of the key into place—for him to realize what was happening. He withdrew his hands and straightened up just as it clicked free, the pressure immediately easing. A moment later he was watching absently as Shaw put it in its box and locked it.

“I have another gift for you,” Shaw murmured, breath warm against his neck. It wasn't the same excitement he'd spoken with when he'd _bequeathed_ the blindfold to him, but Charles' instincts told him that did not, necessarily, make it an improvement.

“I've hardly had time to get used to the first,” he replied, biting back the urge to spit how tired he was of these “gifts.”

Shaw smirk was a brand against his pulse. “You seem to be navigating yourself rather well, my prince. That's part of the reason I decided this gift was necessary.”

An immediate spike of something he couldn't pin-point jammed itself between the discs of his spine. _No, no. That's impossible. He's had this planned, it has nothing to do with you._ He was glad for a moment that the vanity had no mirror, because it meant Shaw couldn't have seen whatever passed across his face.

“What is it?” He was impressed with how nonchalant his voice came out, but he didn't spend too much time being pleased with himself.

“Why not see for yourself?” A whisper. “It's in the bedroom.”

His brains stead descent into an unpleasant buzz made any attempt at banter or acting a difficult goal. So, he went with the only option he had left—walking to the bedroom. At the very least, he could do that free of Shaw.

The afternoon light was casting a glow that might've been pleasant if not for his trepidation, which tainted everything in his renewed sight to a somewhat gray-green pallor. A box—mockingly wrapped—sat on the bed. It was larger in dimensions than the one for his mask was, which meant that whatever it held was of an unfortunate size. His fingers momentarily curled to fists in the material about his thighs before he pressed forward. Ignoring it wasn't going to help him any.

He saw Shaw linger in the doorway, dropping the curtain in a way that gave an air of foreboding. More thin knots tied his intestines as his mind tried to scrabble for what could possibly be inside. As his fingers brushed the packaging he was hit with the fact that it would have been impossible to guess anyway. His mind simply didn't work the way Shaw's did.

One breath to steady himself and another to buy a few more seconds, because the second he opened it he would be affected by whatever its contents happened to be. It could have been any number of horrors, and when the suspense got to the overwhelming crescendo he'd felt in the dungeons, so long ago now, it blotched everything out. He opened it right at the point his mind blanched, like removing a weapon from a deep wound.

The fact that he couldn't have imagined Shaw's latest gift was a small consolation to what he found inside which baffled, then horrified, then numbed him.

His first word—the first word he could think to say—came out as a croak. Pieces of it were lost amidst so many other things he could have found to say, so many rebellions that he had been choking down over the past week and a half: “Why?”

“Oh, my prince, isn't it obvious?” Sticky, scorching, burning molasses. Shaw's voice clung to his skin like melted sugar, impossible to get off and _searing_ for every second it clung. Charles had a sound strangled from his throat by the arms that wrapped around his hips, pulling him back against his chest and what was certainly the early signs of an excitement he should have been expecting. “I'll need to make sure you remain faithful while I'm away.”

Shaw's grip was loose, loose enough that, when Charles twisted around and drove an elbow against his chest, he could push himself away. It was just into the edge of the bed frame, but Shaw took a half-step back. It was some distance, enough distance to turn on him with the panicked outrage coiling around him. “ _Faithful_? You lock me in these rooms like a kept pet, you've stripped me of my sight, my sister—everything! And now you think that I'll—I'll escape for the sake of _infidelity_?”

His mind couldn't keep up with the words tumbling from his mouth, the outrage and sickness that was creeping through him like a steady virus.

“This isn't _necessary_.” His palms hurt where his fingers dug into them. He met Shaw's dark eyes, eyes that were not shocked or surprised or even _listening_ to him, just dark and calculating. “You've already said you were locking me in here while you were gone and this isn't a precaution because you've changed your mind. You're sick and _paranoid_ and—”

He wasn't sure he even knew what the next word was, but it didn't matter when Shaw was suddenly on him again. A large hand sealed over his mouth, fingers pressing against his nose—it was difficult, but not impossible, to breathe. Shaw bent him backwards over the bed, his spine creaked until he managed to shift himself onto the mattress. The heavy weight of his jailer pressed between his spread knees. He grappled with Shaw's hand with both of his, squirming and kicking and wishing his nails were just a bit longer so he could at least try to break the dry skin.

Shaw's fingers bit harder into his jaw, he could feel the bones ache under the pressure. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to twist his head away with no success.

“ _Stop._ ” The word was little more than a snarl, but it was enough to make a sincere stabbing start behind his eyes.

 _How could I not see this coming?_ His mental voice bemoaned.

He fell still, though not with the intent of obliging Shaw's request. No, he sent his mind off to the careful task of calculating through his predicament. Everything had an end, after all, so what was the real problem presented to him? It wouldn't disrupt his plan for escape, it would just mean extra work and trouble later. But he'd be able to get out of the castle despite it, so, for now he was where he always was: biting down on his pride.

It would look strange to suddenly stop fighting and accepting the idea before him, so he opened his eyes to glare at Shaw. His fingers curled harder against his wrist, pressing into the bones he could feel shifting beneath.

“Such defiance in your eyes,” he growled. “I was wondering where it went.”

Shaw didn't remove his hand even as he reached down to pull up his robe, a task that was made significantly easier by the fact that Charles had to spread his legs to accommodate him in the first place. The next instant he felt a hand grazing over his limp penis, cupping him and making his hips jerk in poorly contained reaction. Shaw's hand was warm, thumb sliding along him coaxingly and Charles bit down on his tongue at distant curls of response in his gut.

Almost as quickly as it came it was withdrawing, as was the hand on his mouth. They came back on the clasps of his robe in full force, and vaguely he recalled that Shaw hadn't forced him to strip at the vanity as he usually had. Probably too excited about his latest mortifying gift to care. Charles curled his fingers in the duvet and stared at the ceiling until the clasps were undone and he was made to stand.

The robe fell away with ease when he moved, sliding down his shoulders and arms, tickling his back and removing any choice in shuddering that he might have had. Shaw slipped behind him, clothes cool and rough against his behind and Charles sucked in a startled breath, and his hands slid around his hips to his stomach.

“I'm not—”

Shaw silenced him. “I know you're not. I'm not going to give you the _option_.”

He clenched his hands at his sides. “Even if I had the option, I...” He paused, considering carefully before he pressed on again, dipping his head down. “I wouldn't.”

Shaw's hands paused in their pointless exploring, a thumb swiping over an nipple already hardened by the cool air of the room and making him grit his teeth. Lips soon pressed to his neck, down across his shoulder, but Charles didn't think he'd won. There was no such thing as winning when it came to Shaw.

“Then it shouldn't bother you, should it?”

He drew in a steadying breath that didn't help nearly as much as he would have liked. His silence persuaded Shaw to step back and Charles could hear him at the bed behind him. He didn't have to look. He didn't want to.

The chastity belt was as imposing as the mask had been the first time he'd properly seen it. Well-worked metal—probably by the same smith they'd been to before—and leather spoke to no other purpose than the simple one it had been designed for. It wasn't menacing in the way a wild wolf or an imagined monster was, no. There was a more subtle terror about it, the kind that came with the swell of shame and the knowledge—no, the _promise_ —of a more complete submission than even his mask had imposed.

He didn't watch as Shaw slipped the leather strap around his waist, nudging his legs apart with his knee so the other two could wrap under his thighs. The most reaction he allowed himself was a shiver and a startled gasp when the cold metal hit his skin, fitting in an unpleasantly snug curve over his cock and pressing his balls up against his body. For all its craftsmanship it had three small padlocks—one for each strap to be certain it couldn't be wrangled off—and Charles wouldn't have held it above Shaw to want it that way. To want him to listen and feel and _know_ what he was wearing.

Shaw's hands pulled back when the last lock was in place, moving to his sides and sliding down over his hips, over the leather and grazing the locks. Charles felt waves of tremors going through him; it seemed impossible that he should be able to burn with so much anger and yet be cold to his very core from the metal pressing to his skin.

“How does it feel?” Shaw murmured against his ear. “And before you get clever with me you should know that the metal will cause problems if it's too tight. It'd be a shameful way to die, don't you think?”

In any other situation, he would have pushed away from Shaw and resumed an argument, but he didn't want to try moving in this.

He finally managed to ground out: “It's fine.”

“It needs to be perfect.” The word 'perfect' was a puff of hot air rolling over his ear, almost making him shudder as it left behind a faint, moist trail of sensation. “Maybe you need to walk in it to tell for certain?”

“No. It's fine, really.”

“Convince me.”

Shaw stepped back and Charles jumped at the sudden, light impact of a hand against his bare behind. Acrid hate rose up in his throat like bile, and he pushed down the realization that his breaths were shaking along with his body, that his heart had jumped up into his throat.

The confidence he had steadily regained in the moments he had his sight—which were rarely the same moments he had his clothes—evaporated. What little of it he managed to scrounge from the bottom of his mental reserves was just enough to keep his shoulders set straight and his eyes from prickling into that last stretch before tears. He set his jaw, sliding his foot forward the same way he did when he couldn't see, and walked the distance between bed and wall.

It shifted and pressed, worse than the mask which remained stationary so long as he didn't try to pry it off. This, _this_ he was aware of. Every movement—the shifts of his hips, press of his thighs, the metal cupping and holding him without grinding or scratching—made him aware of it. It was inescapable in a way his mask wasn't, provided nothing but a reminder of how far he'd fallen despite his desperate attempts to claw back out of the hole he'd been dragged into.

He started turning the second Shaw's voice threatened to hit the air, lulling himself to some security that he had made the decision to walk back of his own accord. Shaw's hands settled on his hips, fingers spread as they slid from front to back and clearly palmed the leather straps. Charles focused on a point passed him, on the space just above Shaw's dresser.

“If it's anything less than perfect, I'll just have it adjusted,” Shaw explained. Charles realized, just then, that was why the reason Shaw had put it on him so many weeks from the war.

“It's—” Shaw's fingers twisted in his hair, jerking his face back towards him. Charles flinched before he could stop it, hands immediately moving to Shaw's shoulders to steady himself. He swallowed, watching Shaw's eyes dip down to trail the movement before looking him back in the eye. He spat: “It's _perfect_.”

The annoyance in Shaw's face ebbed away to a pleased smile, like so many devious tricksters in childhood stories, and he stepped forward. One hand settled against Charles' behind, pulling their hips together, while the other rested against his hip, stroking the strap affectionately.

“Excellent. You'll be wearing it for the next few days to get used to it.”

Before he could say anything, raise even a sound of rebuttal, Shaw's lips were sealing over his—parted and ready to argue—and Shaw's tongue slipped inside. It laid claim to his mouth in hot exploration, bruising, and, through that alone, he could tell that the Black King was aroused. Charles nearly choked, lost in the waves of sour loathing as they washed through him. His plans and all the careful acting of the past few weeks were being scrubbed from his mind by the gentle lapping of Shaw's tongue, the fingers digging into the sensitive curve of his ass and hiking him higher and harder into the body before him.

He felt justified, for a brief flashing instant, in biting Shaw's tongue—in doing so hard enough that it and its owner retreated. Charles was even knocked away, almost stumbling to the cold floor.

“What do you think you're doing?” Shaw practically roared at him, and Charles for once felt something akin to satisfaction from it.

“ _Defying_ you,” he snapped.

Shaw had the only key to the suite door, so he made for the study—blessed was the fact that he no longer had any shame for the simple fact he was naked. It had a window, at least, and, maybe, some place to hide—not that he knew what good hiding would do, but it was a start—that he could find some reprieve.

With no resistance or snags on his arm, he could only think that Shaw was surprised by the sudden change in character, but Charles pushed his attention into his task. He dropped the curtain behind him with a snag to the rope when he felt Shaw moving after him and ran for the study, blinded by the rage and panic and swell of humiliation. At himself, at his situation, at the cold that had penetrated something so deep inside him that he didn't think it could ever have been reached.

The window had no latches, so he went for one of the heavy paper-weights on the desk, holding down Shaw's maps. It was heavy, but not beyond his ability to heft. He lifted it without thinking, turning to whip it at the window which, all of the sudden, seemed so frail. For a moment he wondered why he hadn't done this in the first place, why he hadn't thrown caution to the Eastern winds and risk from his mind for the sake of freedom—alive or dead.

One of Shaw's hands curled around his wrist from behind and he might've dropped the weight onto his own head if Shaw hadn't taken it, tossing it to the floor. His wrist was pressed against his back, then forced up between his shoulder-blades until his knees buckled and he cried out, having to lean forward and catch himself with his free hand. He pressed his hand to the floor, cheek following.

“We're on the third floor,” Shaw growled. It was only then Charles remembered all the stairs he took up and down each and every day. “Even if you broke the glass you would have shattered your legs or worse.”

There was a sort of concern and possibly fear for that outcome in Shaw's voice, but Charles thought it little more than a mistake. It was easier to see it as a mistake than any genuine concern, after all, because no _sane_ person would react the way Shaw had—the way he was.

A sound slipped when he was pulled up from the floor, arm bending awkwardly as he tried to turn with the force on his wrist, being pulled back to the bedroom. Shaw's fingers tightened, hard enough that the bones started to throb in protest and he remembered when he sprained it: the careful way Shaw wrapped it, reinforced it. He'd kissed it afterward, if Charles recalled properly. He usually did.

Now he was being shoved forward with barely enough time to catch himself before Shaw was pressed against his backside, hand gripping the back of his neck and bending him forward over the foot of the bed. Charles could feel Shaw's erection pressing against his behind despite the potent rage coming off of him. His fingers curled into the duvet, sealing his eyes closed again, pressing himself to detach from this. He'd ruined too much as it was.

“What little chance you might have stood of convincing me, you have just managed to destroy,” Shaw growled.

 _No,_ he whispered to himself. _There was never a chance of that. He's lying._

Whatever Shaw felt for him, it was too dark to ever be convinced of anything trusting. He wouldn't have believed him no matter what he said or how he behaved. That was wonderfully easy to convince himself of. Shaw was insane in a way that was calculative and disconcerting, but not completely unpredictable.

The fingers on the back of his neck tightened, and Shaw's other hand ran along his back, up between his shoulder-blades and down again. It was the same admiration he usually exhibited, a tame possession that was unpleasantly sensual. Charles felt a shudder race through him on the threadbare connection he kept to his body, Shaw's hand sliding lower until it was kneading into his behind again. His fingers were pressing hard, nearly enough to hurt.

“There's another part to it.” Shaw's voice was quieter now, and more dangerous for it. “It comes back here—” He slid his two fingers against the cleft of his behind, enough pressure applied that soon they were pressing to his dry entrance. “—to protect this from anyone else.”

His hips jerked out of instinct when they seemed to threaten to enter him, pulling away, and Shaw chuckled. It was a familiar sound of pure venom, racing under his skin like a fever. More weight leaned against his backside, Shaw's hips cradling one side of him as he leaned forward and ran his tongue as far along his spine as he could.

“That part isn't finished yet, but it'll be attached before I leave,” he explained. His voice was methodical and intimate at once, like someone aroused by battle strategies. _No. No._ He swallowed, pushed the thought down, before his mind could provide any more incentive to dread Shaw coming back from war. “You're going to be placed on a full liquid diet while I'm gone. After all, I can hardly stop the natural processes of the body. But this also minimizes the need for anyone to be touching you.”

He'd thought the belt itself was debasing, but it wasn't the half of it. He turned his forehead into the bed, baring his teeth at nothing as he dug his fingers harder into the mattress. He pushed down reactions, sounds, words—everything. He wasn't going to think about it, about what Shaw was trying to reduce him to. He couldn't, because some part of his mind was weighted with the fact Shaw was succeeding.

“Do you understand yet?” Shaw's teeth sank into his raised shoulder-blade. He barely managed to choke off the sound threatening his vocal chords. “That last rule wasn't just for _show_ , Charles. I meant it. I'd rather hoped that by having you repeat it, you would come to understand it as well. Maybe even embrace it.”

“I'm _not_ yours,” he ground out. “It doesn't matter what you do to me, how you punish or insist, I'm not. I _won't_ be.”

Fingers snarled in his hair and this time he did yelp, one hand holding him to the bed between his shoulder-blades while the other pulled him back by his head. His back protested in a thousand voices of screaming nerve endings and he had to let go of the duvet with one hand to reach back and try to grab at Shaw's wrist. He felt like his neck was going to snap, if his back didn't first.

Finally he cried out, but Shaw didn't relent, pulling single hairs from the safety of their follicles. He leaned forward, the weight of his body an additional burden on his aching spine. His voice deadly: “I'll accept that challenge.”

\--------

Erik didn't venture to the kitchens that often in a pointed effort to avoid Emma. She wasn't an atrocious woman, really, but he knew that she could be unbearable and cold at times. From what he'd heard, Shaw's recent marriage had assured that she was going to be that way for the foreseeable future—probably until Charles died. Despite the quietness of the castle since the marriage ceremony, she'd been running her entire staff—which was that of the entire castle—very hard.

He knew that because more than a few of them looked relieved to see him when he came into the kitchen, and despite his attempts to be somewhat agreeable with them, that rarely ever happened.

“Hey!” Sean noticed him first from where he was scrubbing the kitchen floors with a wooden brush. He sat back on his legs and wiped a wrist over his brow.

“Is Emma here?” He asked, eyes already scanning over the interior of the kitchen.

“Nah,” Sean replied. “She's in town. Just Angel, Darwin and me.”

Erik nodded, stepping into the room and being careful of the wet floors. “Good, I need to speak with all of you.”

He watched as Sean wiped his hands on his pants and moved to stand up, clearly a bit surprised but likely looking for any excuse to get off of the floor that he could find. Once his hands were dry he brought his fingers up to his lips—Erik barely had time to cover his ears before he was whistling loud enough to make glass vibrate threateningly.

Erik quirked a brow when Sean stopped, face flat. “Warning, Sean?”

The red-head smiled sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

But it did its job, as Darwin and Angel pulled from their respective spots in the kitchen. Angel was carrying a spoon, quite likely from the food for lunch, and Darwin had a plate. They both looked at Sean, but it only took their eyes a moment to find Erik instead. He watched them relax, probably expecting Emma instead and relieved to find that they weren't in trouble or didn't have to carry in loads of food and supplies yet.

“Hey Erik,” Darwin said amiably, waving the plate he was holding. “What brings you here?”

“No early snacking,” Angel threatened, pointing at him with the spoon. “You can just go back out the way you came if that's what you're after.”

“No, that's not it.” He was fairly certain Angel wouldn't have upheld that threat anyway. “I was hoping you would all do me a favor.”

He thought he heard Darwin mention something about 'calling it in' to Sean, but he couldn't be certain. Angel's eyebrows shot towards her hairline.

“A favor?” She looked skeptical. “What sort of favor?”

Erik stepped further into the kitchen and the other three met him half way, crowding around him away from the door. If there was anything the three of them could appreciate, it was a secret. More over, he could only imagine their interest when he was the one requesting it.

“Raven feels the need to see her brother,” he explained, keeping his voice as quiet as possible. There weren't usually any guards around the kitchen—Shaw wasn't so paranoid—but given how his King had been acting recently, he didn't want to risk anything. “Is there any way you three could help her with that request? Perhaps the morning Shaw and I leave for the North?”

All three shared a look, wary but also considering. There was a difference between appreciating Shaw's relative kindness towards them and feeling safe around him. It didn't take a genius or even extended interaction with Shaw and Charles to realize how territorial he was over his new “bride.” Erik, personally, had no desire to throw any of them in harm's way if they didn't think they could achieve it. But that didn't change the reality that they were the only ones he could ask; they were the only ones who stood a chance.

“Well,” Sean said, after a moment of pause. His eyes flickered between Darwin and Angel though, as he likely just tried to fill the silent space.

Darwin picked up for him. “If Shaw doesn't lock the servant's entrance to the bedroom—”

“Yeah,” Angel said. “But I think I heard him talking about locking it. He's gotten really...”

“Paranoid.” Sean practically muttered the word, though the scowl immediately changed to something startled when he looked up. Erik hadn't even realized he hardened his face. “He started screaming at me for going to fill up his bathwater early! I didn't even see the guy!”

Erik could only assume that by 'the guy' Sean, in fact, meant Charles. At this point he could only assume that to be for the best, as he had the unsettling feeling that Sean may very well have been flagellated if he had.

“So,” he started, prying them away from their present conversation and back to the original topic. “Can you or can you not help?”

Another quickly exchanged look, then a shared nod.

“I'll check the doors early, right after you leave,” Darwin said.

“If it's all clear, I'll go get Raven,” Angel spoke up. “Sean will keep watch for Emma.”

“H-Hey, wait!”

But Erik didn't much care to hear Sean's complaints about being the one responsible watching for the cold Ms. Frost, so he just nodded. “Thank you. Remember to be careful.”

Darwin glanced off to the side. “Like we could afford not to.”

The vagueness of that statement wasn't something he wanted to begin to penetrate. Not with so many of his own observations and worries floating around in his mind. He just nodded in a way he hoped to be acceptable and turned to leave them to their planning. He wasn't yet to the door when Darwin called after him: “He's gotten pretty intense, Erik. You should watch your back.”

He paused for a moment, the same unwelcome consideration creeping through him that had gotten him here in the first place. When he glanced over he shoulder, all three were looking at him in a way he couldn't translate. Not into something that made sense.

“It's not my job to watch my back,” he replied. “It's my job to watch his.”

Angel chuckled as he pushed open the door. He could imagine her turning around to walk back to her work without having to look, but he caught the words she said anyway: “Honey, there are a lot of people out there who could use you watching their backs more than him.”

\--------

He was switched to his new diet before Shaw left under the illusion that Shaw wanted to make sure that it would be safe for him for the duration of his time away. War was unpredictable despite the best tacticians working for him, and what they anticipated to be a month could easily turn in either direction. They stopped attending breakfast and dinner with Raven and Erik—it felt strange to have a name for a face he didn't know—and instead he was kept in the bedroom for the week leading up to their departure.

The new diet consisted largely of soups, milk and fruits mashed into a thin pulp, usually diluted with water. There was little to no contact necessary, as Shaw facilitated someone coming in to feed him periodically throughout the week. He was informed that they were required to wear gloves, and that any attempt at starving himself would result in the intervention of the guards. He'd be force-fed if he made it necessary. It was strongly suggested that he didn't.

There was no way to get completely used to the belt, he'd decided. It shifted with every movement he made, hard and concrete. He fell asleep being aware of it and woke up aware of it, the distinct places where the sheets rested warmly on his body and the knowledge of where they didn't touch. Shaw gradually extended the time he was forced to wear it, letting him out for intervals that grew shorter and shorter. He'd been in it for the past five days before Shaw left—tonight was the last time he'd be out of it until Shaw returned.

He hadn't bothered to get out of bed.

Having the mask and the belt on at the same time was rather like all of his skin was slowly being dragged clear away from his body. They reached in through the layers of flesh and muscle to something that he hadn't even known existed inside, and upon discovering it he just found it chained to the bed. The cynical voice in his mind had gotten louder and sharper; an entirely new voice, one that didn't challenge him from Shaw but encouraged him _to_ Shaw had formed. It was quiet but present, whispering constant submission into his ear.

He pulled the blanket up higher, rolling onto his side and feeling the shift of the belt between his legs and the crack of his ass. The back section had been an entirely new wave of depreciation when it arrived, one that he didn't care to think on ever again.

 _It's not cold anymore,_ he thought, as if that would really do much at all to comfort him.

Distantly the door creaked and he wondered what time it was. It was impossible to tell when he wasn't taken out of the room for meals, and time drifted by silently when he stayed in bed. There was no way of estimating it, and part of him didn't see the point in trying.

He lost track of Shaw the moment after the door closed, not finding him again until the bed sank beside him. He rolled over, a pathetic defiance but really the only kind he cared to put on. His body was drained and limp—useless, pointless. The plan he'd been confident in only a few weeks ago was now blurred in his mind and Shaw's presence didn't do anything more than make him want to throw up.

“Are you really going to be difficult now?” Fingers stroked along his cheek, but aside from twitching his head further into the pillow he didn't move. There wasn't much point in it. Charles curled his legs closer to himself under the blankets in a way he hadn't done since he was a child.

“It would appear so.”

It was to his surprise that Shaw withdrew, not only his hand but from the bed entirely, and Charles could hear him moving about the room. The part of his mind that usually detached for the worst of it was straining to listen, but it felt buried underneath the bitterness, too distant to acknowledge.

He knew Shaw was at his dresser, though only by the rummaging. After a pause, Charles spoke up: “What time is it?”

“After dinner.” Charles supposed he only got the information because Shaw had no cause to keep it from him. He didn't remember being fed, but he supposed it must have happened at some point.

He rolled over again, putting his back to the disconnected sounds.

“Are you going to take it off?” He pressed when another few moments passed. Shaw stilled behind him, then sighed.

“I was going to.” Charles actually believed him this time, which was why his stomach felt like it dropped through his abdomen. Shaw's voice became icy again: “But I hardly think you should be rewarded for your behavior.”

“My—” Rage flared behind his eyes, under his skin, but was extinguished just as quickly. His jaw hurt as he tried to reach deep down for that anger, that sickness, but he couldn't find it. He knew it was there—god, it _had_ to be there—but it was so far away now. His entire body felt black and cold.

“I'm leaving for war in the morning, and you can't let go of your arrogance for one instant to—”

Shaw wasn't really complaining so much as snarling, and it was clear that his previous debilitation was not so exhaustive. Charles envied him for that much.

“To submit?” He finished. From where he was, he could practically feel Shaw go rigid. A voice in the back of his mind whispered something dark in his ear. “You've left me nothing _to_ submit, regardless.”

He hated the flicker of warmth that spread through his gut when Shaw was suddenly on him, that fury clawing its way to the surface, just beneath the skin. He fought, and suddenly it didn't matter that it was pointless that he would lose. All day he'd done nothing but lie in bed and lament and this, the panic and the burn, they were real. As real as hot coals under his skin, coiling through him like acid as he flailed, punched—anything.

By the time he was pinned to the bed, somehow flipped over and on his stomach with his face mashed into the pillow, his muscles ached from fresh use. Shaw was panting over him and Charles had the distinct impression that words might have been exchanged, though he couldn't remember what they were. Settling back into his body was a slow process, and the first thing he realized was Shaw's erection pressing into his lower back through his trousers.

He clawed at the sheets and groaned—felt it twitch against him—but he didn't know what he was groaning for or at. His mind was buzzing with adrenaline, a faint but pleasant high.

“There's clearly plenty of you I have yet to lay claim to,” Shaw hissed against his back. Fingers tightened in his hair and Charles' tightened in the sheets in response, his body twisting in conflict. It wasn't what he wanted, but it was wonderful to _feel_ again.

Shaw was predictable, but Charles struggled anyway as his wrists were bound over his head. He couldn't see, but that almost made it easier to do. The pacifistic part of his brain was just as removed from the world as the rest of him was—if he couldn't see it,then it wasn't real. All that was real right now was the heartbeat in his temples and chest and the ache of his lungs and his arms, sweet signs of at least _some_ resistance.

He was left alone then as Shaw slid off of him and off the bed and Charles craned his head back, pretended to himself how helpful it would be if he could see even though he knew otherwise. When the mattress sank again he lashed out a leg without a second thought, catching Shaw somewhere in the side. He growled, grabbed his ankle hard, and Charles could feel the bones grating beneath but he refused to make a sound. Just that single hold was enough for Shaw to flip him onto his back again, pin his legs together and sit on his shins, making him instinctively jerk to no avail.

Shaw spread them a second later, though just enough that he could run his hand between his thighs. Charles had to sink his teeth lightly into his arm to keep quiet because his thighs, he'd discovered, were excruciatingly sensitive. Unfortunately, there was very little he could discover about himself and keep from Shaw. The tyrant started kneading the skin, the touch itself so distracting that it took Charles a moment to realize his hands were slick. His cock started to swell but it only took a second for the metal to bite down on it, conforming it to the curve of its flaccid state with a cruel pressure.

He twitched as the sensation jumped around like tiny shocks beneath his skin and he could feel drool slipping from the edges of lips. He bucked instinctively when both hands started working in tandem and he tried to press his thighs together, to chase the fingers out from between, but it only served to make him aware of how his thighs slid together. He hated the way it made his bloodstream boil.

“Stop,” he gasped, still squeezing. “It hurts.”

It did. The metal was unrelenting and very different from the few times Shaw had staved off his climax using just his hand. For every little bit he started to swell, the belt scraped against him, turning from a harmless sheath into an ever-shrinking cage against his cock. He tugged on his wrists, because the small pinpoints of sensations were starting to bounce up his spine, and he had to arch again. It was pinching tighter and tighter.

Shaw's skilled fingers squeezed again at the most sensitive apex of nerves on his thighs and he jerked on his legs. The weight of them being trapped was an alarming jolt of panic to his entire system. “Sebastian!”

Shaw's fingers stilled instantly. It was the first time Charles had ever used his name, despite being aware of it from the beginning. He had never been given express permission, but that wasn't why he hadn't used it before. He tried to avoid acknowledging who his tormenter was, thinking of him as something so different from himself, something without a first name, made that much easier. But this was new and unpleasant and it hurt in a way that was beyond a bodily ache—a way that scared him.

The hands slid down and away from his thighs and the heat started to fizzle out in his system. Charles tried to focus on his breathing as his legs were pressed together again; something tickled the backs of his knees and he shuddered. Whatever it was wrapped around twice, above and below his knee caps, before being tied together. An instinct pressed him to move—even more so when Shaw got off his legs—but he didn't dare, not after what the feeling of his slippery thighs had done just seconds before.

Shaw's voice startled him when he spoke, his erection a thick weight on Charles' hip. “You would get so much further with me if you would learn your place.”

“I've gotten quite far enough with you, I think,” he ground out, his jaw still clenched tight.

Shaw's only reply was a 'hm,' which was inconsequential and vague enough to make Charles both angry and nervous. He felt the shift of weight, Shaw sliding lower on his body, and then the sudden blunt press of his cock against the crease of his oiled thighs. Charles startled himself with the sound that raced from his throat when Shaw thrust between them, cock sliding easily against the muscle, still massaged to sensitivity.

He had to bite his arm again, choking the sound off to a whimper as Shaw continued, not having to worry about tearing him the way he would otherwise. The motions felt heavy and rang boisterously in his ears, skin hitting skin in a new way. Heat started as a result of the pleasant friction that had him swelling into the unrelenting chastity belt all over again.

He writhed as the space was pounded, the rhythm faster and harder than any he'd felt before. Shaw took full advantage of his malleability, the lack of threat for serious damage. When Charles tried to arch Shaw held his hips to the bed, forced him still and that just made him want to scream. Maybe he did. His entire body felt thin and ignited, like a piece of rope pulled hard so one swipe of a knife would do.

When Shaw came he pulled out, the familiar spurts of heat splashing over and between his thighs, against the belt and his stomach, even his chest. Marked territory.

Usually Shaw would collapse beside him, but this time he didn't. As the weight lifted, Charles immediately squirmed, grunting and curling his toes into the mattress. It was a mixture of the need to flip over—to clear the come off—and the need to move. He was half-hard and the sharp sting of the belt wasn't enough to outweigh the tingling in his thighs, he needed squirm, unable to come himself but needing _something_.

But then Shaw grabbed his ankles, pulled them towards the foot of the bed so he was taunt. His attempts at kicking were useless, like a fish flailing out of water, and Shaw specifically held him so he could not flip over. With a frustrated, perhaps even primal sound, he settled back against the bed, his air coming in huffs.

The come was pooling in the cradle of his thighs and starting to seep between. He could feel it on his stomach and chest and for a horrifying moment he thought he could feel it on his neck, but he decided a second later that was his own sweat. When Shaw spoke up, his voice was thick and it was clear air was a challenge for him as well.

“You are not to wipe that off,” he said, and despite the lack of air his voice was low and very serious.

Charles' stomach bottomed out again and he squirmed, which only served to have Shaw's hands tighten on his ankles and Shaw himself barking another “Stop!” at him. He settled, but more because of the way his struggling just made his thighs rub together, further smearing the come between them.

He started to ask why, but the word was a burden on his tongue that he couldn't vocalize. Shaw's reasons always came back to the same things, so there was very little point in asking anymore. He knew what it was: _I'm yours alone._ Shaw's most important rule.

Shaw bound his ankles to the foot of the bed, spreading them awkwardly—what with his knees still bound together—for the express purpose of keeping him from flipping over. Charles felt his entire body heat at the display, imagined Shaw stepping into the hallway to get his guards. He pictured him pointing at the stains of cum across his belly and thighs and telling them, “See this. Make sure it stays just like this.” Like his seed was bloody _paint_ on a canvas Charles had not volunteered himself to be.

None of that happened. Shaw left him to the feeling of itchy, drying come across his body. It was different than it had been before, and Charles only supposed that was because he'd been told not to clean it away. The bath in the morning that would wipe away the caustic marks likely wouldn't even be offered and it would hurt to try and peel it off. He sank his teeth into his lower lip, choking down the strangled sound constricting his vocal chords. He was sick to his stomach, and the only small blessing of it was that it helped to chase the pain of his stifled erection away.

\--------

Erik had told her the night before that she didn't have to see him off, but Raven insisted that he come by to wake her up in the morning. She didn't know much about war, truthfully, but it didn't take any tactical genius to know that it was dangerous and that Erik was risking his life. Moreover, he was risking it on behalf of a man she remained convinced didn't deserve his own life, much less other people sacrificing theirs. But that wasn't an argument she wanted to get into with Erik.

She'd been afraid to sleep that night because she didn't think Erik would actually do what she'd asked. It wasn't until the knock on her door that startled her awake that she'd realized she'd drifted off. She jumped out of bed—still dressed—and dashed across the suite. She was afraid that she'd find a guard waiting behind the door to tell her some message, which only intensified her relief when it was Erik.

He looked handsome, the way knights were always said to look. There was a hardness in his eyes, though, that erased the whimsical fantasy of the entire thing. This wasn't a story, after all.

“I was worried you weren't going to listen,” she confessed. She took his arm and he seemed confused by the gesture out of the corner of her eye. In his defense, though, she hadn't done that before. She found his reaction charming.

He blinked. “You asked me to.”

“That didn't mean you were going to _listen_.” She rolled her eyes.

They walked outside in relative silence, though she took a moment to thank him for the visit he'd arranged for her again. She'd already thanked him several times by now but she didn't see the harm in doing it again. A feeling clawed around in her stomach like a starved animal, telling her that she didn't know if Erik would come back alive from this. There was no telling what Shaw would do with her if he happened to die; she didn't know what she would do without Erik either.

The courtyard was bustling with people when they reached it, horses being towed around and things packed up. It almost looked like an encampment, really, rather than a gathering army. Erik had already mentioned that Shaw wasn't bothering with his full forces for this; Raven remembered how he'd subtly mentioned that it had been his idea not to do such a thing because of the nature of the northern terrain.

Almost the second they stepped outside someone ran over with a horse trailing behind them. It was dressed to the hilt for traveling and bumped the metal plate on its head against Erik's chest. Raven blinked.

“He seems awfully friendly,” she commented, letting her hand fall away from Erik's arm. She watched him stroke the horse's neck and couldn't help but think that there was something terribly affectionate in the gesture.

“He's been with me for years,” Erik pointed out. “He's not just a war horse.”

There was a solidity to his voice that made it difficult to decipher anything from, but Raven rather felt like there was more to that than Erik wanted to say.

She watched Erik out of the corner of her eye as she reached her hand forward. The horse swayed his head to investigate it, brushing his nose to her palm. “What's his name?”

She swore Erik stiffened a little, scrutinizing her out of the corner of his eye. But just as quickly as it came, it passed. He looked back to the horse, smoothing his leather gloved hand over the steed's shoulder.

“Tristan.”

She stroked the shell of the stallion's ear as Erik swung himself up onto his back. Tristan nuzzled against her, the restless bump and nuzzle of his head oddly soothing. At least she wasn't the only one who was a little bit anxious. She steadied him and pressed her forehead to his as Erik, in the background of her vision, checked his equipment.

“You take care of him, alright? Bring him home safely,” she murmured. Tristan knocked his head back and down again before she'd even managed to step back, vigorously nodding. She gave him one more pat on the snout before moving back to Erik, resting her hand on his knee. He was pretending to check his cloak, and she could tell he was pretending because he stopped immediately when she put her hand down. “You come back in one piece, Erik. One _living_ piece.”

Something knotted tightly in her throat that she wasn't expecting. How the worry could be so palpable after only a month wasn't something she could begin to explain, but there it was choking off her air all the same. She tried to swallow past it and ignore the swelling in her eyes that resulted. She sniffed and pressed her forehead to the back of her hand, squeezing his knee.

This was the first time she'd be truly left alone, she realized. Even after losing Charles, Erik had always been there whether she cared to appreciate it or not. Now he'd be gone for an indiscernible amount of time—he might not come back at all, for one reason or another.

She wiped at her eyes with her free hand as best she could with the way she was. One of Erik's hands settled on the back of her head and it felt just as awkward as the rest of his gestures towards her, even one so small. It was hard not to laugh, even if the sound was a touch broken.

“You should go to your brother,” he mumbled, voice quiet. “Before Lady Frost heads back to the kitchens.”

“You're leaving for war and _still_ trying to get rid of me?” She couldn't help but laugh, and when she lifted her head she found Erik was smiling a little as well. An unusual fondness was in his eyes. She pulled his hand down from her head to kiss his gloved fingers. “I mean it, Erik. You come back here alive, or I'll find some way to ruin your afterlife.”

His fingers twitched in her hold, but she didn't look up.

“I don't doubt it.” That affection was still there, weighted down by something sincere and serious. Then he eased his hand away from hers and took up the reins. She looked up as he jerked his head towards the entrance to the castle. “Go.”

Again she had to swallow around the knot in her throat, her chest aching as several different things tried to pull her apart from the inside. Before she could think about it she nodded, turned, and ran for the kitchens.

\--------

He decided that if Shaw had not made him get dressed then he very well wouldn't have gotten out of bed. Not only did he have the belt to contend with, but now the dried come sticking to his skin. He hadn't slept—Shaw hadn't removed the restraints and it was impossible to sleep with his skin crawling—but the exhaustion he felt was so much deeper than anything sleep would have amended.

As expected, the usual bath hadn't been offered. Shaw woke up early to start getting ready, bustling around the room, and he left for a long while before returning to let him up. Charles got dressed in a distant haze, aware that he was doing it only on the peripheral of his senses. He could feel the cloth faintly snag on the dried semen on his skin and flinched despite the fact that it didn't hurt in the slightest. He was shaking—he couldn't _stop_ himself—by the time he was fully dressed.

Shaw sat with him through breakfast to make certain he ate, kissed him and left fresh bruises on his neck before he departed, the door clicking shut behind him. The only movement Charles had made was to wrap his arms around his stomach and contort himself into the corner of the main suite's couch to try and force the trembling to stop. The come between his thighs scraped together when he moved; he could feel it flaking off his stomach as he hunched and straightened and then curled onto his side. It took a while to integrate the numbness of his mind into the muscles of his body, but he managed.

He lay on the couch and felt the stillness of the room settle across him like being suspended in lukewarm water. He was sure that, if he didn't move an inch for the entire time Shaw was gone, a layer of dust would settle on him like the books in the study had before he'd explored them. Maybe, between the layer of dust and wishing himself into non-existence, he'd be dead or invisible by the time Shaw got back. He knew it was an insane idea, but he couldn't bring himself to be terribly surprised that he was having it.

When his inactivity was interrupted, then, it stood to reason that he would startle. He wasn't expecting any sort of social contact until lunch—so then who was coming through the bathroom door?

“Charles?”

It was little more than a whisper, but that was all it took. A month now without Raven's voice and he still knew her better than anyone else. His stomach ached and he scrambled from the couch, nearly tripping into the table in the process. He bumped it, which must have been what she heard because soon feet were slapping against the cool stone and abruptly stopping. He knew she was in the bathroom doorway even without his sight.

“Charles!” She had the good sense not to yell, but instead gasped his name. The carpet muffled her advance and he jerked when she touched him, a sound slipping like he was in physical pain. Maybe he was. She was touching him—touching—his body covered in Shaw's seed and his marks and his chains and his sister was pressing to him, soiling herself through mere contact—

“Don't!”

He flinched at the sound of his own voice, felt Raven withdraw as though he'd gone red-hot in her embrace. He felt like he had. His knees were weak and head spinning; the blindness made it more disorienting. He groped for the couch, found it, and pressed his hand to his stomach as he gulped after air. _When had it gotten so thin?_

“Charles...” He heard her now, the adrenaline boosting his senses to make up for the dark, and brought his hand up. “What is it? What's—”

“Don't touch me.” His voice sounded frail, even to him, and his stomach _hurt_ from his struggle for air. He swallowed, throat too dry to really help.

She laughed, a distant and worried sound. “What...” He could hear her frowning. “What do you mean...?”

He wondered how he looked just then, sick and hunched over the couch. His fingers were trembling where they gripped at the armrest; his mind fragmenting faster than he could pick up the pieces. It had been so long since anyone else had touched him more than from fleeting necessity—anyone besides Shaw, of course. Raven's imprint was burning his skin, making him dizzy, and yet he wanted to laugh. The urge coiled around his stomach even as his eyes started to burn.

 _Oh **God** ,_ he croaked to himself, even his mental voice was wrong.

“Charles?”

She shifted—he heard it—and he flinched away.

“I'm fine.” The words were hurried, but at least they were out there. He straightened himself, compulsively running his hands down his stomach. Material scraped against the dried semen hidden under his robes—he'd _touched_ her, God, _God_ , with his soiled, marked, violated body—and he pulled his hands away with a jerk and pushed them to his sides again. “I'm...it's nothing.”

Then the realization smacked him in the face like a wayward branch. He jerked in the direction he last recalled her voice.

“Raven, how did you—how're you _here_?”

He listened to her shift, tried to call back the memories of her fidgets when she had don't something she ought not to have and yet was still very proud of it. He tried to imagine her more-sly-than-innocent smile—it was so hard. He couldn't seem to remember her at all; it tore apart something deep in his chest, made him bleed.

She tried to sound rejuvenated, but the emotion seemed like it was being pulled through water. “I'll explain it all in a minute. First let's get that thing off, yeah? Where's he keep the key?”

His breath hitched. Of course, of _course_ she'd want to take the mask off. She'd want to see him, reassure him, that was why she'd come here. Why she was risking her life and limb and—

Charles tried not to flex his hands at his sides and managed to circumvent the gesture into shaking his head. He keeps his head facing down, not sure anymore what he'd be looking at now if he could—

“He keeps—“ He almost said 'them'—four keys, one to his mask, three to his chastity belt—but didn't. Raven didn't know, she wouldn't know. She couldn't know. Never. He started again: “He keeps it with him. There's only one copy.”

“Oh.” And one single sigh of a word managed to break him, ripped his entire being to pieces. He'd let her down, somehow, he was so weak. So bloody _weak_. Then: “Hey, hey. Stop...”

But he couldn't, he really couldn't. It was like the contents of his stomach for the past month—almost two now, already—wanted to heave out of him. Except it was worse, because he couldn't breathe either, so everything aches. It hurt and if he wasn't so completely useless, if he'd just stopped being caught up in himself that morning he could've tried to take the keys without Shaw noticing. He could've done _something_.

He was numb long enough that he didn't realize Raven had touched him until his arms were being pushed—no, guided—until he was sitting down. She pulled her hands back a second later, but he felt the couch shift with her weight.

“Charles?” She sounded far away and tight, like she was trying to keep everything together. Hooks sank into his insides and dragged down, slowly pulling his nauseous entrails out. “Charles, I'm going to touch you, alright? Just—just stay calm. Deep breaths.”

He was piecing the words together out of thin air, inconclusive and fake, but the touch to his shoulder was real. He knew because he flinched away from it.

 _No, don't touch me,_ he squawked. _Not you, Raven. Not you..._

But his muscles were twisting and aching with spasms, wrenching every last bit of strength out of him by his nerves. He couldn't have fought if he wanted to. He was so off-balance, lightheaded...

Gone.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I hate the new method of commenting on things on LJ. : D But I'm going to continue to update there and here, since I think people would like it if I kept updating there as well...?
> 
> Anyway, this chapter has been on-and-off beta'd, so I might have missed things. I'm sorry it took so long for me to update, I try to have some space between chapters but I think I just get lazy. Regardless, thanks for all your kind words and reassurances, guys, I really appreciate it. : )
> 
> Here's chapter 8!
> 
> \--------

**NOVEMBER**

She couldn't get Charles out of her head after their visit, at least not by sitting around the castle. She'd spent some time talking to Erik's friends in the kitchen about visiting again, but it was difficult to say with Lady Frost back in her proper place. Apparently she ran the kitchens—the entire household—like a military base. Raven didn't want any of them to get in trouble on her behalf, but she asked them to let her know if any opportunities game up.

Her visit just confirmed the worst of what she'd thought, and she didn't sleep that night. How could she? Charles' broken sounds kept echoing in her ears, louder than anything else. It had taken him a while to calm down again, at which point she tried to distract him with questions about other things—anything—to keep his mind away. She avoided touching him even though it twisted a knife in her chest to do it. He looked frail, even after he'd composed himself again. He had smiled and laughed and answered her questions but there was something there. Something she'd never stop seeing, not so long as they were here.

Erik had strongly implied that she shouldn't walk to the town by herself, but she went anyway. Being barred up in the castle was driving her insane, knowing there was just a floor between her and her brother and yet she couldn't get to him. If she didn't go to the city, then she'd try scaling up through the windows instead. Between the two options, visiting Henry seemed like the one less likely to end up with her killed.

As it turned out, she was right.

The moment she saw Henry she was torn between crying and screaming. It had nothing to do with him, of course, although his comments about brutalizing the royal family to set a precedent for the townspeople echoed in her ears. No, it just had to do with Charles and the fact that someone she trusted was standing in front of her. Henry would listen, even if he'd say all the wrong things.

In the end, they'd gotten as far as the back of his shop and she just couldn't do either of them. She fumbled, which somehow turned into cleaning his little back haven. She organized things for him as he flitted in and out, dealing with customers. It was silent at first, an hour or so of her just bustling around, but gradually she started to talk.

“I saw Charles yesterday,” she said, it was like she was talking around a rock in her mouth.

Henry knew that she had, of course, but had thus far shown the good sense not to ask. “Oh yeah?” When she didn't respond, he tried again. “How'd that go?”

It seemed easier, somehow, to pace her breathing with sliding books back into their slots on the small shelves. The first time Henry had allowed her back here he had scrambled everything out of her way, and she had the sense that he didn't do it out of kindness, but rather because he didn't want her touching them. Now he was sitting on his cot, arms folded over his knees, just letting her clean. She felt his eyes trailing after her, but he was passive. He didn't even twitch to stop her once.

She looked down at the book she was running her thumb over, waited until she was sure her voice wasn't going to crack when she tried to talk. “Shaw left him in the blindfold. He took the only copy of the key with him.”

The fire popped in the silence that spread between them. She could tell that Henry didn't know what to say, and frankly if she waited much longer then he was going to _try_ and probably say something wrong.

“He covers the mirrors, Henry.”

Her voice was quiet but the statement was vague, which means that either one of those factors could have contributed to his, “Wh-What?”

She slid the book into place with shaking fingers, tried to swallow past the pinching in her throat. For some reason her mouth pulled into a smile even though it wasn't funny. Maybe the muscles of her face thought they were helping. She didn't know.

“He covers the mirrors,” she repeated, slowly. “So Charles can't see himself. He can't—”

Her next inhale was a little bit too loud, and for all his awkwardness Henry is suddenly significantly _less_ awkward in moments of need. He didn't show the slightest care for the books that she dropped, just setting his hands on her arms, then her shoulders, and eventually she folded herself into him. He hugged her, and somehow it's a little bit more certain than any of Erik's hugs had ever been. It's like he knows what he's doing, even if he doesn't know why.

“Charles can't see anyone but _him_ ,” she choked out. “Even when that stupid mask is _off_ he can't—He's not even allowed to see his own reflection—”

She babbled, hoping she was coherent and yet not caring if she wasn't. She felt like her lips and tongue were trying to mimic Charles' from the day before. They felt agile and capable and yet it was like her thoughts were water, gradually choking her with their stream of endless incoherency. It was like trying to explain a feeling—a dark, endless feeling of nothing, really, in the end.

It took her a while to pull back into herself, and when she does the first thing she feels is Henry's hand running up and down her back in a steady rhythm. He's not hushing her; he hasn't said a word, but she still knows that he's listening. Somehow.

“He flinched whenever I tried to touch him. He _screamed_ at me the first time. I thought we'd get caught but no one came in. Do you...” She felt sick. The guards standing outside the doors hadn't so much as knocked to check on him when he panicked. It was like it was nothing, like a routine, something to be expected.

“Do I what?”

“Nothing.” She didn't want to think about it. She couldn't. She'd throw up her breakfast if she tried and she knew it. “Can I have a handkerchief?”

Henry seemed reluctant to pull away from her, but she managed to smile in a way that she could only hope expressed that she wasn't about to pass out. She wasn't frail, after all, just a bit shaken. For her benefit and Henry's, though, she took a seat on the edge of his cot. Aside from the chair at his desk—which had books stacked on it that she hadn't sorted yet—it was the only available place to sit.

He took a seat next to her when he came back with the handkerchief, mumbling that it was clean under his breath. For some reason that made her laugh, and then she couldn't stop. Not until Henry reached over to squeeze her arm, “Raven?” His voice was soft and concerned. She let her head fall against his shoulder as the last few chuckles died down, and for once it wasn't out of an advance.

“He just pretended he was fine afterward,” she whispered, looked at her hands. “He asked about how I was and just...like everything was fine. Like he hadn't just been practically sobbing on me, telling me how dirty he felt.”

She frowned, felt her brow crease like all of her nerves were pulling from a pins-and-needles sensation. “I don't even think he knew what he was saying.”

“He was probably delirious,” Henry ventured. She wanted to be mad—she almost was, because Charles wasn't fevered or imagining things—but then he continued. “I'm not...saying that the King isn't...” He sounded awkward, and frustrated because of it. “I've seen that kind of thing before, a few times. Usually with women who'd...”

He didn't finish the sentence and she wanted to laugh again because no one could say that word, could they? Her brother was going through it—had been going through it for almost two months now—and here they were, incapable of even saying the word. _Pathetic._

“Been raped,” she said. The word seemed like the lightest one on her tongue, when held in that light. “You've seen it in people who had been raped. Like Charles.”

Henry made a sound of consent in his throat, and it was far more uncomfortable than any sound she's heard him make up until then. Again, she _wanted_ to be mad, but it took her this long to build up the courage to say it herself. It would have been unfair to expect Henry to toss it around—particularly if he was worried about her. And— _Oh._ When had Henry started holding her hand?

She blinked when his fingers twitched and supposed that he must have noticed because he straightened despite her head on his shoulder. He cleared his throat. “Your hand was, uh, shaking.”

“Yeah.” She sounded distant, even to herself.

They sat in silence again for a long time, punctuated by her sniffling or the crackle of the fire. A few aftershocks went through her and she'd squeeze Henry's hand sporadically, but eventually they ebbed away.

She swallowed, this time feeling a slightly more real smile on her face. “He wants to meet you.”

Henry's fingers twitched against her's again. “Me?”

She couldn't help but laugh. “Don't worry. I'm not about to force you to sneak up to the castle _and_ sneak in to see him.”

She sat up and looked at him. Henry had fixed somewhat wide eyes on her, but there was the flicker of relief in them when she said she wasn't aiming to get him in any trouble. She tucked some of her hair behind her ear and looked back towards the fire.

“He'd just like to meet you. I told him about you, after all, and I think he likes you.”

Henry just nodded when she looked to him again, seeming to be caught somewhere between flattered and worried.

She wiped her eyes one more time and stood up, moving back over to pick up the couple of books that she'd dropped. Her hands were much steadier now, and though Charles wasn't gone from her mind she at least felt better knowing that someone else had an idea. Someone far away, someone who Charles didn't have to act in front of.

“He wants to meet Erik, too. Do you think that might be more manageable?”

Henry's only response on his way over to put the kettle over the fire place was an indignant snort. Raven decided to take it as a challenge.

\--------

He hated himself a little bit.

It wasn't anything new, he'd realized. He wondered how long he had _been_ sort of hating himself, now that he realized that he'd internalized it to the point that he hadn't realized it was there. Not until Raven came by and suddenly the thin infrastructures of his mind were crashing down around his ears. Then he was a weak puddle of everything he had striven not to be for the past twenty-eight years of his life. Everything he'd tried to prove he wasn't.

Now, he he was, being everything that had ever been expected of him by his father's advisers: frail, useless, _pathetic_. He wasn't fit to live, let alone rule Westchester. Just as well, he'd always thought Raven would have made a wonderful ruler if she could be coaxed from her shell. No one in their father's council took her seriously, but she had the sort of strength that would have made her a force to be reckoned with some day.

If he hadn't ruined it, that is.

The truth was, his present self-loathing was so deeply engraved that he didn't really hate himself a little bit, he despised himself quite a lot. But for what happened with Raven a few days ago, well, he hated himself a little bit. It had taken the better part of a week to work himself there.

At the first show of human compassion he'd crumbled, felt all the fortresses he'd built inside just buckle as though they were made out of straw. He'd collected himself in short order, but that didn't change what Raven had seen. He'd spent the better part of the past two months doing everything he could to convince her that he was all right just to waste it. She had been comforting him, and that wasn't ever what he wanted.

She'd explained why she likely wouldn't have been able to return soon and, though he didn't show it, Charles was relieved. He missed her dearly, hearing her voice after he'd settled down had been like hearing a nightingale sing, but her presence weighed on him. Alone in the suite, at least he didn't have to worry about tainting her or anyone else.

He hadn't realized until Raven touched him that, for the past two months, Shaw's hands had been the only ones he'd felt. It seemed like such an obvious observation, but it rested in the back of his mind like the feeling of clothes or the necessity of breathing. _Yes, of course,_ his mind said. _Of course he's been the only one to touch you. Didn't you know?_

And he did, but it seemed like an inconsequential reality. It didn't matter because no one else was allowed to touch him. So Shaw's marks burned into his skin—his bruises, the muscle memory, his bloody _seed_ —didn't matter. They were between Shaw and him, and he had gotten used to his own disgust with himself. Shaw had done it, had been the one to ruin him, so Charles was hardly worried about soiling _him_.

But then Raven. Light, warm, soft, sweet-scented—she _seared him_ just by being near. He'd read stories as a child of monsters fended off by the light of the Lord and now he realized what that feeling must have been. That irrevocable grime of contamination that he couldn't get off. Shaw wasn't just on him, he was in him. Always, always— _You **will** submit. You **will** be mine. You won't have a choice. You won't have a **choice**._

For the second time that day—the fifth time in the past few days since Raven's visit, still curled on the couch where she'd left him despite his regular meals—he bit had into his knee to try to stifle the strangled sound.

Truthfully, he didn't think he'd hated anything quite so much as he hated himself.

\--------

Despite his intimate knowledge of the northern lands, they disarmed him. Their terrain reached back into the depths of his mind and pulled out the hardest year of his life, like tearing the gauze off of a fresh wound. The second they arrived he knew he'd be glad to leave, and he wasn't mistaken. It passed quick and efficiently with minimal casualties to their own army. He'd been right to suggest a smaller force, and it had all paid off in the end.

He and Shaw were not commonly excited to return home, but he could feel the same eagerness beating on both their backs like a fresh wind. The very same as the one that powered their men back to Lourdes, with the call of families and warm beds waiting for them.

In the past Erik had only ever felt restless to know he'd soon be back in his suites, but he'd found himself concerned for Raven. It wasn't enough to drive him to distraction, but questions turned in his mind over the nights they were gone. Had she visited Charles? Slipped away without being caught? He was willing to bet she ventured into the city despite him telling her not to. He knew that strength he was pushing her into was going to come back to bite him on the ass.

Still, Lourdes couldn't have come into sight soon enough, in his opinion.

He was expecting to have to track Raven down when they got back, but he'd no sooner dismounted Tristan than she was throwing herself at him from the stairs. He nearly didn't catch her and couldn't imagine that lunging herself into his armor—even if it was lighter weight than others—was comfortable.

“You're safe!” Even when she was pressed against him her feet weren't touching the ground. He was holding virtually all of her weight on his neck, which made it seem completely appropriate that he should bend a bit to set her on her feet. When he did she pulled back just enough to kiss his cheek. Something kindled in his stomach.

“Short battle,” he explained. “They weren't expecting us.”

“You know your battle strategies, I'll give you that.”

There was something in her eyes and it took Erik a moment to pin-point it as relief. She was so completely _relieved_ to have him back in Lourdes. He felt momentarily frozen, uncertain of what he was supposed to say or do—thanking her seemed a little obtuse—but then Tristan was tossing his head, and she stopped looking at him like he had been missing for years.

“Don't worry,” she said, this time talking to his horse. “I haven't forgotten about you.”

She fished an apple out of her bag and held it up for him, flattening her palm as he took a huge, loud bite. She stroked his face as he chewed, from his forelock to the tip of his muzzle. Erik found himself temporarily dumbstruck as he watched. Tristan was usually far more skeptical about people, and though he realized that he and Raven had interacted a bit before he left, he thought that was just because he was already riled for action. Apparently he'd been wrong.

Raven caught him staring and quirked a brow. “What, did you want me to feed you an apple too?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Don't start.”

Raven just smiled, at least until Tristan reared his head back from her and started dancing in place. Before he could think about it, Erik reached forward and grabbed her arm, pulling her behind him.

“Erik—”

“Just wait.”

Shaw hadn't dismounted when they walked over, and if the man did not press power enough on his own then he certainly did when he was mounted. Hellfire was large, almost too large to be considered a proper destrier, though no one was going to tell Shaw that. He'd always been particularly aggressive, even amongst stallions, and it said something when a fair number of rumors had been started about the _horse_ and not only his rider.

Erik wrapped his hand around Tristan's snout, holding him against his shoulder. Shaw chuckled. “Still doesn't like Hellfire, I see.”

They'd never gotten along, which wasn't saying much given that most stallions didn't. But Tristan had always seemed particularly disdainful towards Hellfire. All the better, Erik supposed, it meant they didn't worry about breaking line during travel.

Shaw's eyes traveled right through him to Raven. She could feel her fingers digging under his gauntlet, nails pressing into the rough leather underneath. It didn't hurt, but he felt his senses jump that much higher.

“Good afternoon,” Shaw said. Erik didn't like the way he was smiling, but he couldn't put a finger on why. Shaw's expressions hadn't bothered him in years. Why now, all of the sudden, did he notice the sharp edge to his gaze? “Your husband was as ruthless as ever, my lady.”

 _And the rumors?_ The echo of Raven's voice from a memory was as clear as if she'd repeated the words in his ears right then. He thought he felt her stiffen behind him, but he couldn't be sure.

“Oh, I'm certain he wasn't the only one.” Raven's reply was sweet and light. It was quite possible that she meant it to offend, but Shaw's eyes flashed—Erik knew they would—and it seemed like more of his teeth were suddenly visible. Erik lifted his eyes to Shaw's hairline.

“I'll be looking forward to seeing your brother.” Hellfire grew restless under him all of the sudden and Erik held on harder to Tristan. “I imagine he'll be _pleased_ to have me back.”

“That's some imagination you must have then, pervert,” she spat. But Shaw was already turning away and she'd kept her voice too quiet for him to hear. Erik was infinitely relieved; he loosened his hold on Tristan but Raven's hold didn't immediately loosen from his arm. He looked at it, then up at her, and the anger that he'd expected to have powered that last comment wasn't there.

She looked pale and opaque.

“Raven?”

“I need to talk to you.” Erik swore there was an unsaid _about Charles_ hanging in the air, but he had never been very good at picking those things up. There was every chance he'd been imagining it and yet—

He swallowed, looked back at Tristan. “We'll talk in my suite. Let me take care of things here and I'll meet you there shortly.”

When she didn't respond he reached up to squeeze her hand, causing her fingers to start and jerk away as though his hands were ice. Then she looked at him, truly saw him, and nodded. He'd just turned back to Tristan when she was heading up the stairs. At first, he didn't register her voice when it called after him but then, all of the sudden, he turned around and realized it was him she was talking to.

She smiled, standing on the third step and holding the edges of her dress up. “I really am glad to have you back.”

Never being one for words, he just nodded, once, and hoped that was adequate. It seemed to be good enough when she turned and, as Erik watched her head inside, he realized that she'd run out to greet him without bothering to put any shoes on.

\--------

Charles could hear them returning before anyone had to come warn him about it, and that was good. That was very good. The window in the bedroom looked right out over the courtyard and he remembered hearing similar sounds the morning that Shaw was preparing to leave. It wasn't a difficult conclusion to ascertain from the commotion outside.

Someone silent—they were always silent—came in to check on him shortly after they returned. Charles hadn't been expecting that, so it was a stroke of luck that he hadn't already gone along with his plan. He could have pretended to have lost something, but it would be that much closer to revealing him if someone already caught him hiding. Thankfully, whoever they were, just drifted in and out. He had to waste precious time by listening and waiting to make sure they were really gone, but when they were he sprang into action.

As expected, it didn't take Shaw too long to come to the suite. Charles was certain he had other things to do, but he knew that Shaw would come there first to check on him. So he hid.

Frankly, it was a bit of a long-shot, but Shaw had proven himself to be incredibly paranoid. If he wasn't already twitching with adrenaline at the sound of Shaw moving through the room, he might have considered it something of an experiment. As it was, he had to hunch down on himself and bite his knee to keep quiet.

Hiding was a dreadful experience when one couldn't see. If the movement stopped for even a _second_ he could picture Shaw standing over him, looking at him, picking apart what he'd tried to do and getting furious despite the likely wave of amusement that would come up in reaction to seeing him trying to make himself as small as possible. But, thankfully, Shaw didn't seem keen to stay still for long. The instant the panic started to set in he couldn't seem to _stop_ moving.

He could hear Shaw cursing, moving things and storming across the floors, but he didn't come near where Charles had hidden. Quite probably because he didn't see any reason to. The wardrobe was too big for Charles to move, particularly with clothes inside, and there certainly weren't any strewn about on the floor; except that there was just enough space between it and the floor for him to wiggle underneath and come out on the other side. He'd scraped up his back and the back of his ankle, but he'd made it with relative ease otherwise. His heart was still roaring in his ears from the split second he thought he'd gotten caught on a stray nail.

He was trembling, trying to control his breathing, as Shaw raged through the entire suite. It didn't take long at all for him to holler for his guards and the door veritably _slammed_ open. That had always been a risk—Charles knew there were guards outside the door. Had Shaw taken both with him? Had he left one behind for this exact situation? He tried to listen for movement but even then, he knew it didn't matter. They wouldn't have checked the room, just been told to wait.

The black part of his mind sneered, _Yeah, and if he **didn't** leave anyone, here you are wasting valuable time. Or have you decided that you like it here now?_

He didn't realize he'd physically shook his head in response until he felt his hair brushing across his forehead. He took a deep breath and forced himself to move. The voice was right. He knew Raven was safe now and this was his only chance.

\--------

Raven was sitting perched on his bed when he'd come back in the same impersonal way he'd sat on hers when he'd first mentioned having a way for her to meet Charles. Her feet swung off the end, hands steady in her lap. She looked stronger, somehow, than when he'd left. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he had the sense that something had changed; he could only hope that it wasn't for the worse. She looked up when he came in and something danced across her eyes, like she wanted to hug him again, but he was in the middle of peeling off his gauntlet.

“So, what happened?” The question was equal parts his concern for her and his own curiosity. Erik really wasn't sure how he felt about that.

He watched as her attention went back to her hands and she laced her fingers together; he could tell she was squeezing them even from this distance.

“He's not doing well.” Her voice was quiet, and it wasn't from any necessity. “I know you think Shaw is flawless, Erik, but he's done _terrible_ things to Charles.”

“Raven—”

“He _screamed_ at me not to touch him.”

He wasn't sure if whatever he was going to say would have been an argument, but if it had been then it died in his throat and left an uncertain lump there. He tried to swallow—it didn't help—and moved over to his bureau to set his gauntlet down before he ended up dropping it.

“I'm his _sister_ , for crying out loud. All I did was hug him—he knew I was in the room, he heard me, he said my name—and then he just...”

He set the second gauntlet down and tried to ignore the vicious ouroboros his intestines were turning into, twisting and clashing as they chased after their own tails inside him.

Finally, he settled on: “I don't know what you want me to do.”

“I don't know what I'm _supposed_ to do.” Her voice sounded so brittle that he whipped around to make sure, in some foolish notion of his mind, that she hadn't fallen apart. Physically she was fine, but he could see that she was starting to. That she had.

As per the usual, he walked over and wrapped his arms around her shoulders before he knew what he was doing. The chest and back-plates of his armor were already gone, and though the leather and rough wool couldn't have been comfortable, she buried her face against it anyway. To his astonishment, she didn't start crying. She didn't even hug back; she just rested against him.

“Henry said he'd seen the symptoms before,” she murmured.

“I told you not to—”

“It's not important, Erik,” she snapped. She was right, it wasn't. He just didn't want to talk about this. “He said he'd seen things like—like that fit...they'd happen sometimes to people who'd been raped.”

He wasn't expecting the word, given how she'd danced around it and he felt no need to vocalize anything that could have cast his King in an unfavorable light. Now she said it without flinching, and he was both pleased at her strength and appalled at the idea.

But that _scream_...he couldn't deny what it had been.

“He gave me something that he said might help next time,” she continued. “Just to calm him down. It won't...nothing can _really_ help him except getting away from here.” He barely managed to get his mouth open before she was cutting him off again. “I'm not asking for your help. I'm just stating a fact.”

He clamped his jaw shut and stared resolutely at the distant wall. Clearly there wasn't any point in speaking when she was going to just cut him off and, more than anything, he didn't know what to _say_. Once again that scream was bouncing off of the hollows of his mind and some voice inside that wasn't quite his own whispered _How long are you going to pretend?_

“He wants to meet you.”

Raven's voice put an abrupt end to the voice and the echoes. “Me?”

She pulled back and he let her, dropping his arms down to his sides. For once his shoulders didn't feel any tighter as a result, it was less like floundering with person-to-person contact and more like he'd helped, for once. She was smiling a little. It wasn't very convincing, but he thought the effort said plenty.

“You and Henry,” she said. “I told him about both of you. He wants to thank you for taking care of me, probably.”

Erik almost opened his mouth to suggest how stupid that was—why wouldn't he take care of her?—but then he stopped himself. It wasn't like Charles was having the best experience with married life, he supposed.

He had planned to tell her that it was a one-time thing, that she should have been getting whatever closure she needed so that she could go about her life, but it was clear he was ten seconds too late. If he tried to ban her from doing it, she'd probably just get reckless on her own in the attempt. She was determined and, for better or for worse, he was certain he ahd something to do with her increased will to act on it.

But before he had to try out a carefully worded sentence along the lines of “Maybe, some day, we can work something out” there was a commotion outside his room. He recognized Shaw's voice immediately and frowned.

“Stay here.”

Raven didn't argue, for which he was grateful, and he headed to the door. Shaw was already headed in his direction. Erik shut the door behind him and met him halfway.

“My liege?”

“Charles is gone,” Shaw snarled. Erik's back when rigid without his consent. His first thoughts went to Raven but no. _No_. She'd been sincere about her brother needing to escape. She wouldn't have said that if he already had. Shaw was still speaking, his eyes darting like he expected Charles to come out of the stone halls. “I don't know how or when, but you're helping to look for him. Check _everywhere_. He couldn't have gotten off the grounds.”

Erik nodded, once. “Sir.”

Shaw turned on his heel to head back towards the stairs. “And if I find out that your _lady_ has anything to do with this, I'll have you _both_ tried for treason.”

A cold trail went down his spine—not like ice, but like the clammy touch of a corpse—at the words. The word “tried” was a formality and nothing more; Shaw would have them both tortured and killed without any need from his council.

He spun around and went back to his room. Raven was just opening the door as he got close and, seeing red, he grabbed her around the throat and pushed her back against the door.

“Erik!” She gasped. He wasn't cutting off her air or squeezing enough to bruise—unless she bruised _very_ easily—just holding her still. Scaring her, even as talons of self-deprecation for the action were sinking into his sternum.

“Charles is missing. Did you have _anything_ to do with this?”

The shock in her wide, blue eyes was enough of an answer. He let her go immediately, cursing as he ran a hand through his hair.

“He's gone?”

“ _Missing_ ,” Erik snapped. His nerves were jumpier than they had been since his first real battle. “Stay in my room. Do _not_ come out.”

He didn't know what drove her, fear or her own anxiety, but she nodded and went back into the room. At the very least, it confirmed that Raven had nothing to do with this. While she might have been capable of acting convincingly some day, he believed it was still a talent that eluded her. Besides, it would have been difficult for her to act any other way concerning Charles, he imagined, than exactly how she was feeling.

He pulled in a deep breath and didn't give it time to circulate before he headed down the hallway, back towards the stairs. One guard was checking the bedrooms on the second floor while the other one and Shaw had headed downstairs. Erik didn't know how far they thought a blindfolded man could get, but at this point he wasn't underestimating Charles. How _had_ he managed to get out?

Then again, maybe he hadn't gotten out at all.

Erik remembered back to when his village had been attacked, how his mother had told him to hide and wait for them to leave. The attacking tribe wasn't burning down houses, just trying to steal resources and other violence, so he should have been safe. She'd told him to hide and when they left he could come out and find help—he was a good tracker, for someone his age, and they already knew where the tribe had come from—so he hid. It might've worked, too, if he hadn't lost himself at seeing her death. It made his escape sloppy, he'd been caught, but the _methods._

 _He didn't leave the room at all. He just **hid** in it._

He ran to the end of the hallway, past the guard who was sticking his head into another room—Shaw would have his head if he didn't tear each one apart, but Erik had his own life to worry about—towards the stairs. He could have been wrong, of course, they'd been gone for almost two weeks. But if he _had_ hidden, then he should've still been—

Erik rounded the sharp corner that turned directly into the stairwell, tearing his eyes upwards from his path for only a second.

“Hey!”

\--------

One thing that he was sure sighted people took advantage of was their ability to move based on a general sense—they didn't have to consciously look at a table while they moved around it, or look at each stair before they stepped at it, for example. He had a temporary envious loathing for anyone who had their sight and still managed to bump into things or trip.

Of course, people weren't perfect, and he hadn't been perfect with his sight either, but they at least had the _option_ of being careful. If they just opened their eyes, paid better attention, then they would have been able to prevent it. This was, of course, ignoring other things like equilibrium and inherent clumsiness.

The stairs might not have been so difficult, really, because he'd ventured down them with Shaw almost every day for the past two months. He knew their spacing and rhythm in his head, but actually _performing_ it was different. Suddenly, in the dark and rushing, it was like they were a completely different set of steps. Ones that he had never walked down before, ones that he didn't know.

But he only had a few minutes, and that was being generous, so he forged ahead. He kept a hand on the wall in case he should trip and started down. After the first three it got a bit easier—yes, these were still his stairs, the stairs he knew, just as the next set to the bottom floor would be—and he got a bit more confident. It could have been the confidence that did him in, he supposed, but he didn't think so.

It was the fact that sighted people took things for granted. Like when someone entered their vision, perhaps not as the focus point but _there_ , where they could see them, where it wasn't so startling when they _shouted_.

“Hey!”

He startled.

He miscalculated.

He tripped.

All because _someone_ could see.

\--------

Castles echoed.

They did this by their very nature. It wasn't like they could help their stone grandeur that carried sound waves like memorized words from distant memories. He'd rather thought it was like a defense mechanism—a rather ingenious one—because it was almost impossible for anything important to happen without his castle echoing it to him. It was the loyalist soldier he had, if only because it was the very nature of its existence.

He didn't know what had been shouted when it hit his ears—he'd just hit the last few steps onto the bottom level—but the fact that it _existed_ was important enough. There was no reason for someone to have been shouting right now unless they'd found what they'd been looking for. He turned on his heel and raced back up the steps, not the slightest bit deterred by a climb he had been making for years now.

It didn't take them ages to reach their destination, nor did they reach it in such short order that he barely remembered the time passing. When he got there, though, between the first level floors and the second, time certainly seemed to stop completely.

Then it rushed into him again, like being pulled into the undertow, and everything was red.

“ _Don't touch him!_ ”

Erik looked up at him, startled by his presence but reserved in his actions. He was crouching awkwardly on the steps, holding a silent, still figure in his arms as if he was making to keep him from sliding down the incline of the stairs any further. _Charles._

Most men—even his guards—would have startled and stepped away, but not Erik. Not defiant, loyal, impudent little Erik, who would so quickly throw away fifteen years of training and care and generosity. No, Erik stayed completely still, and yet gradually got closer. It took Shaw a moment to realize that it was because he'd moved forward, started up the stairs, and Erik hadn't moved at all.

Neither of them resisted when Shaw knelt down, hooked his hands under Charles' knees and shoulders, and picked him up off the ground. Erik didn't even flinch when Shaw looked to the two guards, now gathered at the bottom of the stairs, and jerked his head in his direction. He didn't fight when he was pulled down the stairs, arms shoved behind his back, and led straight for the next set of stairs leading to the bottom level. Shaw knew he wouldn't fight when he was led to another set of stairs after that, either.

Castles echoed.

And so did their dungeons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH. And I hope you all had a lovely holiday too! Forgot to say that before...


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. I'd like to thank all of you for the wonderful support again, it means a lot to me. I've also come to realize that you might not have been as creepy as I am with authors I like, but I wanted to let you know that I all have a tumblr as well. If you're interested in previews or anything, I post them there sometimes. As well as just random tid-bits about K&C. : ) The name is coshledak, same as on AO3.
> 
> This chapter is unbeta'd, so I'm sorry for any mistakes. I start school in the morning but I wanted to put up another chapter for you guys before I get buried under school work again. I hope everything is going well for all of you!
> 
> Onto chapter 9!

Waking up happened in a rush that morning, starting with the slightest pain in the back of his head that could have been a headache or a bruise. It was in fact, that pain, that made everything else come into focus. When he tried to reach for it, he found that his hands were bound over his head. From there he instinctively jerked, disoriented, just to end up crying out as a throb of pains seared through his ankle. In his incoherency he pulled again, causing the same agony, and his sore, delirious mind realized that it was tied to the bed.

 _He_ was tied to the bed, in fact. The bed that smelled of him and Shaw and everything that he'd been trying to escape from—

And failed to.

He was back to where he started, and worse off. He'd twisted his ankle. He remembered the jolt of pain before he'd hit his head and lost consciousness. Before he'd woken up here, bound and stripped down to his cages and—oh God— _Where was Shaw?_

It was only then that he realized he'd been gagged—a strip of cloth pressed between his teeth, drying out his tongue—because he'd briefly considered saying something. There was no way he could play this off, no way he could pretend he had been doing anything other than trying to escape, but what would Shaw do? No matter the transgression, he hadn't raised a hand to him after their first night. Being raped had become such a regularity that it couldn't have possibly been a punishment unless—but he didn't want to think about it. He didn't. He did _not_ want to try.

His breathing had started to become difficult again; his head was swimming the exact same way it had when Raven had visited. He flexed his fingers, tried to focus, but the panic crashed into him like a battering ram. He surged after air, nearly choking on it as he tried to pull it in. The pain in his ankle seemed inconsequential, seemed distant, as his skin steadily got too small for his body.

It felt like he was stuck in a loop where time dragged on and on but he was moving so fast—dying so fast—and he didn't know how long it had been when someone was untying the gag. He knew he'd started shaking because when a warm, calloused palm pressed to his cheek, he could feel himself trembling compared to its stillness. A thumb stroked under his mask, a low voice murmured words that weren't nearly as important as the steady pace of breathing and the deep thrum of sound in his ears.

He knew it was Shaw before he came back into himself completely, and his gasping turned to faint sobs for a completely different reason.

Shaw cupped his jaw, and Charles couldn't bring himself to be anything more than pliable dough. “Yes, I imagine you realize how much trouble you're in?”

A pressure started at the spot just behind the curve of his jaw and he nodded. It stopped squeezing, but didn't ease any of what it had applied.

“You've sprained your ankle and have a nasty bruise on your head,” Shaw explained. His voice was steady, but there was a danger to it that Charles didn't have to hear—he could feel it. “I was rather hoping my homecoming would be a little more peaceable, but clearly you still don't understand your place here, do you?”

When he didn't answer, Shaw squeezed hard enough to make him jerk on his ankle unintentionally. “No!”

“No _what_?”

“I didn't—I'm sor—” But then Shaw's hand clamped over his mouth, fingers practically sealed against his nose, and Charles _thrashed_ because he couldn't breathe. So, Shaw was going to kill him, then? Maybe it wasn't such a failed plan after all.

“I don't want your _damn_ apologies!” Shaw was roaring, the sound of his voice alone making Charles' heart jump that much faster into his chest. Shaw was pressing him into the pillow, and he felt dizzy. So dizzy.

Shaw pulled his hand back—Charles was fairly certain he whimpered, but his head was going so fast—and sneered. Charles gasped for air, as though he wasn't thinking that death could have been the best reprieve he could have found. He coughed, and Shaw's hand wrapped around his throat. But his touch was too light to be a threat, fingers shifting over the pulse in his throat idly.

“Oh no, I'm not going to kill you,” he said, as though reading Charles' thoughts. It wasn't the first time, but it still made his skin crawl. “I have something much better than that in mind.”

Charles swallowed, he could practically feel Shaw's smirk. Despite what he tried to convince himself of, his mind couldn't shake the sense that something terrible was happening. Something far worse than anything that Shaw had done in the past—but what? What could have been worse than anything he'd endured thus far.

He jumped, hating himself for losing track of his surroundings now, of all times, when Shaw's breath ghosted over his ear in such demonic familiarity. And yet the heat of his breath did nothing to counter the cold of his words.

“Let's go visit the man who caught you, shall we?”

\--------

 _They didn't have to restrain me,_ was the only thing Erik could think when one of the guards came in and cut the ropes on his wrists. His hands were a little bit numb, but that was from the cold more than having the ropes tied too tight. The guards knew him—all of them did—and they were probably baffled as to why Shaw had him brought down here in the first place. Erik didn't blame them, even if he wanted to be very, very angry at something.

It had been hours since he'd been brought down here, shoved in a cell that was a tad too familiar, and bound—just his wrists, thankfully, anything more than that would have been humiliating—and the door locked behind him. The dungeons under Shaw's castle hadn't been used in a while, but it wasn't like they were particularly kept up with to begin with. They were made for prisoners, after all, people who didn't deserve better treatment than this.

He tried to keep his breathing steady and his mind from wandering. He already knew where this was going—he didn't spend fifteen years at Shaw's side _not_ to know where this was going—so there wasn't any point in panicking. It wasn't anything he hadn't experienced before, after all. It had just been well over a decade since the last time. It figured, of course, that one of the Xavier's would be the cause.

The stupid, selfish brat just couldn't accept it. He couldn't have just made it easier on all of them—on himself—by doing what Shaw wanted. He knew his King well enough to understand that if Charles didn't persistently defy him, then none of this would have been necessary. Shaw probably would have let him out of the mask by now, might have even let him socialize with Raven, if no one else. But no, he had to be vain about it. _Typical royal blood,_ he spat.

No sooner had he thought the words than the dungeon came alive with movement. He didn't bother lifting his head until the small group had materialized in the dark in front of him: Shaw, Charles and Azazel. Excellent. Shaw _would_ get the very best for him despite the fact he'd probably saved Charles from breaking his neck.

He stopped rubbing his wrists as the door opened and remained sitting on the floor until Azazel came over and pulled him up by the arm. They were friends, in a rough understanding of the word, so he wasn't as harsh as he could have been. It was probably the only small favor he'd be able to afford; once they started, Shaw wouldn't let him go easy.

He wordlessly stripped off the layers on his upper torso, letting them fall to a pile on the floor. If Shaw wasn't watching him so closely, he would have given himself the gift of glaring at Charles. He'd never be able to lay a hand on him like he deserved, so glaring was the closest gratification he was going to get. Now even that was stripped from him. He couldn't say he was surprised.

Azazel jerked his head towards the back wall and Erik glanced at it for a second before complying. Business as usual. It wouldn't do to try and argue about it or to apologize, they both knew it.

He spread his arms out, digging his fingertips between the bricks and letting the cool from the stone seep in through his palms and splayed fingers. He didn't try to fight the shudder of cold, damp air—it would just make it worse if he did it when Azazel started—and braced his legs apart. Over a decade and he still remembered the entire damn routine.

He'd expected to start right away, which was why it was surprising to hear boots starting towards him across the floor. He kept his head forward, slightly down, and fingers clamped on his nape. The hold was aggressive, it reminded him of the way a wolf would go for its enemy's throat, but it didn't hurt. It was a warning, a claim.

“I'm sorry about this,” Shaw said, and he wasn't really. “You probably saved his life. Thank you.”

 _But he has to learn his lesson,_ Erik heard, even though it went unsaid. He clenched his jaw. _How did I end up as the goddamned whipping boy of a prince I've never said two words to?_ The question was almost funny, because it's answer was holding him by the back of his neck like a misbehaved dog.

“He _will_ hear this, Erik, and he will know your pain. I strongly suggest that you don't hold your tongue, because you're going to be lashed until I'm satisfied that he's learned his place—” Then, almost as an afterthought and yet far too threatening to be one: “—and you've remembered yours.”

He set his jaw harder, enough to bite off his tongue if it had gotten in the way, and almost considered putting it in the way for that express purpose. Except, unlike some princelings, he wasn't nearly so weak as to think that dying would be of any help.

Shaw stepped back, ghosting his hands over the old raised scars on Erik's shoulders, and retreated to where Charles stood, Erik guessed. Azazel still hadn't started when Shaw murmured something, and maybe he meant for Erik to hear it and maybe he didn't. It didn't matter, because he heard.

“This is the man who caught you on the stairs. This is what happens when you resist me, when you take advantage of my leniency with you. People will suffer. They will suffer for speaking to you. They will suffer for touching you. They will suffer for _your_ audacity, _your_ insolence, and _your_ pride. Do you understand?”

He didn't hear Charles' reply. He wasn't sure he wanted to—like the twit would understand what the sting of a whip was—so he didn't think about it. In fact, he didn't have the chance, because suddenly Azazel's whip was cracking across the ancient marks and searing new pain into the flesh.

By the fifth lash he was grunting—Azazel _was_ the best at what he did.

Charles had been apologizing since the second.

\--------

Charles didn't think Shaw was a sadist purely because of the incessant rape, no. There were other things too, other obvious and surprisingly simple things. The rape was almost, _almost_ understandable now. Carnal needs aside, Shaw wanted him to submit, wholly and completely, to him. The assertion of sexual dominance just happened to knock out two birds with one stone—and Shaw found him attractive. If he hadn't, Charles wasn't sure he would have made it this far, but he had. So there was that.

He knew Shaw was a sadist because of the glee that misfortune caused him. If he hadn't known for sure before he'd been dragged down to the dungeons and left there to imagine monsters, then he would have known at that moment. But now, within only a few hours, Shaw had reaffirmed it.

The second they got back to the room, the nameless man's grunts and strangled cries still echoing in his ears through his raging heartbeat and own apologies, Shaw had dragged him to the bedroom. What struggle he put up was weak, he knew, but his head still hurt and the fight seemed pointless. The attempts he made were ending in failure and this time someone had been hurt because of him. Someone he couldn't even _see_.

Shaw stripped the belt and mask off without making him sit at the vanity. He just tossed him towards the bed and held him down, letting the metal clatter to the floor around them. He snarled and growled threats and affirmations that Charles couldn't make out, flipped him over onto his stomach and bound his wrists behind his back. Shaw held his face into the pillow nearly enough to stifle his air, but not quite, and proved himself a sadist.

Shaw was already hard when they'd returned to the room, and Charles didn't care to know if it was from his pain or the other man's. His fingers thrust, oil-slick, inside of him with a viciousness that made Charles cry out, muffled into the pillow he was held against. When Shaw ordered him to pull his knees under himself and he didn't immediately comply, he jabbed three fingers as hard and deep inside as they could reach. It hurt—he'd only had one in just before—and a choked sound, half-controlled, left him. He pulled his knees in, pressing his face and neck harder into the mattress to support himself without his arms. Somehow, he just didn't think Shaw would care.

The movement of his fingers didn't get any lighter, as though Shaw had decided that he didn't deserve any slight reward for complying with him. The twisted part of his psychology that had come to know this particular monster could understand the reasoning: Charles had tried to escape. He'd failed miserably, but he'd tried, and what animal would be rewarded for doing something they were practically _trained_ not to do?

It happened so quickly around him that all of his thoughts were nothing but water slipping through the cracks in his fingers. He couldn't find the restraint to make himself stop crying out, and he was certain that was the idea. Any time he tried to grapple for self-control his mind spat out a record of whip lashes across his mind. _Look what you've done. Look what you've **done!**_ His mind screamed at him, almost wordless, and insistently because it had no throat and therefore couldn't go hoarse. It could scream, and scream, and _scream_...

Shaw held his face into the pillow as he pushed into him, one hard, agonizing thrust until the intrusion was sheathed deeply inside. His hips gave a spasm out of instinct, but that just brought home the fact that he couldn't get away from it. Shaw tightened the grip in his hair; he couldn't move an inch. The King didn't move either; he just stayed buried inside and unusually silent. Not even a grunt sounded around Charles' own gasps and faint hiccups.

They stayed that way until he quieted, until the shouting in his head has calmed to a memory of a roar and the uneven sound of his breathing was the only thing in the room. Shaw's cock still hard in him and Charles really couldn't tell which of their heartbeats he was feeling through the throb of muscle.

“You brought this on yourself,” Shaw growled. There weren't just the deep waves of his lust in his voice, but other things mixed in as well. He was furious, perhaps concerned, and there was that flutter of paranoia holding it all together on the edges. “You realize that, don't you?”

The scariest part was that Shaw's voice seemed to know. He wasn't trying to reaffirm a point, he was just clarifying something that they both understood. But Charles didn't remember coming to that understanding.

“Yes,” he croaked anyway, because he _had_ come to that understanding at some point. It was no longer just a glimmering consideration on the edge of his mind. He'd done this, no one else.

Shaw's fingers tightened in his hair. “Say it.”

A tremor coursed through him, his muscles clamping down on Shaw's cock with unintentional licentiousness. Unlike his mental voice, his real one was already hoarse from apologizing and whimpering and maybe screaming, at some point. He couldn't remember.

“I deserve this.”

Tears had already burned their way out from the backs of his eyes, and yet he couldn't bring himself to care. Shaw's hand unwound from his hair and instead pressed to the back of his neck, fingers gripping along either side as though he had the aim to dig out his spine. Charles couldn't say he would have protested if he decided to do it.

But instead he pulled out and shoved back in, his pattern relentless and quick, as though they'd been doing this for the past two weeks and he'd already been loose. He wasn't, and it hurt. Shaw drove what little air he managed to gather out of his lungs, made his insides twist and clench. But his body was too used to him, to the feel of his cock, not to respond. He'd barely noticed the tingling in it until Shaw's other hand was wrapped around his erection, squeezing hard enough to sting.

Shaw would never raise a hand to him, but the violence he used now was far worse. Even in the past, when Charles had done something he didn't like, it hadn't been this bad. The pain bordered on too much to arouse him, and he wasn't sure that Shaw would have cared otherwise. He gripped his erection like it shouldn't have been there; Charles could feel himself swell into it, but any sense of orgasm was chased off by the ache in his behind and the tight fingers.

He choked on air, the pillow threatening to gag him just with the way his face was held into it. Shaw's pounding might have driven him higher up the bed if he weren't trapping him the way that he was. By the time he stilled, completely sheathed inside, Charles' thighs were trembling with ache. He gasped at the familiar rush of come flooding into him, filling into spaces that Shaw's erection couldn't reach. It burned the already hot muscle of his inner walls, made his gut ache and he felt sick. _I deserve this. I do. I **deserve** it._ This couldn't have compared to the lash of a whip, and he'd lost count of how many the man had received. He wished he hadn't; he should've known. Should have carried that number with him for the rest of his life.

Shaw pulled out quickly and streaks of ejaculate chased after him, running hot trails down Charles' thighs. If he wasn't already trembling then he might've shuddered, but as it was he just tried to stay still. It didn't matter, when every breath made him aware of his own filthy— _aroused_ , God, he was _sick_ —body. He panted, squeaks threatening the edge of his voice. He whimpered when Shaw squeezed his pulsing cock.

“You do not come,” Shaw snarled, still angry despite the heaviness of his breath. “Do you understand?”

Charles nodded weakly, but Shaw's grip tightened. “ _Yes!_ I won't—! I won't...”

Shaw loosened his grip, sticky with the precome that had already leaked, and wiped his hand down his quivering thigh. It didn't matter. The mortification of what he'd done seemed to outweigh any small, bodily violation. The heavy weight of his abandoned cock between his thighs, Shaw's come still seeping out of him, the _old_ come that hadn't been washed off yet—none of it mattered. Not when he could still hear those lashes in his ears, the grunts, the confused attempts at restraining sounds, as though the man wasn't sure if he wanted to let them be heard or not.

Shaw's voice was like frozen glass: “Stay like this. _Exactly_ like this.”

“Yes,” he said, but his voice had to claw its way up his throat. Shaw seemed to hear it, though, because Charles felt him get off the bed and leave the room.

Distantly he heard Shaw leave the suite, and, though he wasn't really listening for it, it seemed to be the cue his body needed. He pressed his face harder into the pillow, a spot already moist with tears or sweat scratching at the bridge of his nose, and choked on a muffled scream.

\--------

Raven debated for quite a while about leaving Erik's suite. She'd heard the commotion in the hallway, and by the time she'd peeked outside, Erik was practically gone behind the set of steps leading downstairs. Somehow, still, he'd managed to send a glance in her direction that seemed to say 'stay there.' She wanted to ignore him, to find out what had happened, but she stopped herself. At least one of those voices had been Shaw's, and if he thought she had anything to do with this then she'd be in more trouble than she could handle.

So she waited. She roamed around Erik's suite and looked at a few of the books scattered about. Somehow she didn't figure him for much of a reader despite the fact that there had been quit a few instances of him carrying a book around. They'd first met properly, the morning after their wedding night, when he had been reading on the couch she was sitting on. It seemed strange to think about it, now.

Hours passed and she started to worry more. There was the chance something had happened to her brother, she supposed, but she didn't think that Erik would have been gone this long if that were the case. Even if Shaw had demanded his immediate help, surely he would have come back to let her know what was going on?

The panic was just starting to get the best of her when the door opened and she jumped to her feet from the couch, caught between dozing and thinking.

“Erik, what's—”

She stopped when he wasn't alone, even though she hadn't been aiming to say anything particularly personal or secretive between them. The man walking with him—one hand on Erik's arm, she noted, as if he was keeping Erik from tilting to the other side—was tall and tan. His black hair was slicked back from his face, his facial hair neatly trimmed. Raven found her eyes resting on the whip at his side.

“Oh god,” she gasped, lunging into action. Erik seemed to tip forward as she got closer, and she immediately reached forward to catch him. The nameless one caught her hand just before it landed on Erik's back and rerouted it in an instant to his hip instead. She looked at him and frowned. He didn't seem phased.

“Do not touch the back,” he said. There was a gruff, deep accent on his voice that she couldn't place.

“I'm _fine_ ,” Erik growled, but he pointedly didn't move.

“Yeah, that is why you almost ended up face down on the stairs,” the other man responded. Erik swayed a bit, like he might've tried to do something, but the action was aborted. Nameless looked at Raven with severity in his eyes. “Kitchen will bring up water for him to bathe. Put him on the bed— _not_ on his back. I will give the staff something to help.”

“Help?” But he was already turning to leave. “Help with what?”

Suddenly the man was gone, and Erik pushed himself away from her unsteadily to head towards the bedroom. “Get out, Raven.”

She turned to look at him and was surprised to find that he was walking—more stumbling, really—backwards. “You're joking. I'm not—”

“ _Get out!_ ”

She jumped at the sudden roar, the sheer rage that, in her opinion, was rather uncalled for. Erik had wobbled to a stop in his bedroom door, leaning his shoulder against the stone arc, and was looking at her with tired, pained eyes. It was then that she realized, as she moved to uncurl the fist that had formed in her surprise, that her fingers were sticky. Sticky and red.

The breath she inhaled was more like a hiccup, and she looked from her hand to Erik. He was making a concerted effort not to look at her.

“Erik—”

“It's nothing,” he snapped. “Just go.”

She frowned. “Let me see it.”

He looked up at her, a mix between confused and hardened. For a second she thought he was going to ask her why, but then he diverted his response at the last moment. “No.”

“I'm not leaving, and you aren't in any state to throw me out,” she argued. “And before you ask, yes, I'm quite willing to test that.”

She watched him flex his fingers at his sides, like he was considering it. He pushed himself away from the wall that he was leaning against and took a half-step forward—she had to fight to stand her ground—but didn't come any closer. He turned.

His back was a mess of torn skin and blood. She'd never seen anyone who had been flogged before—such punishment wasn't all that common around Westchester—but what she had heard of it seemed to align perfectly with the barbarism here. It took all her strength of will not to act upon the nausea that threatened her stomach. It wasn't like it was the first time she'd seen blood, but it was the first time she'd seen such damage.

“Oh, Erik—”

“I don't need your pity,” he hissed, moving into the bedroom. She flinched.

“It wasn't pity!”

It wasn't, or at least she didn't mean it to be. But she couldn't think of anything else to say, anything that would begin to encompass what went racing through her mind. Maybe it was pity, then, though she could hardly say she knew for what she was pitying him. She headed towards the bedroom.

He was sitting on the bed, angrily stripping off his boots and trying to conceal the pain as he did so. Her stomach twisted in violent rebellion when suddenly stopped; his hands were trembling just slightly.

“Let me,” she stepped forward. His head snapped up towards her like an animal guarding its meal; he was practically snarling at her. She'd never seen him so angry— _no, hurt,_ her mind argued, _maybe even afraid_ —but she held her ground. It seemed to work for her in the past. “Please?”

He seemed rather like he was expecting her to have run away at the sight of his back, eyeing her like she very well could have been an illusion. But then he rolled his eyes and grudgingly sat back, extending his leg towards her. She dropped to her knees in front of him, eyeing his face as he flinched.

“Careful,” he said. She paused, fingers hesitating over the laces. Had she managed to hurt him already? She hadn't even done anything yet. Erik shook his head, “Your dress.”

The laugh that escaped her then was anxious, she knew, and her fingers were shaking. “Bugger the dress, Erik. You're _hurt_.”

She set about untying the laces, cradling the back of his knee as she slid one boot off and then the other. There was still mud and grime caked on the bottom, flecks of it got on the cerulean of her dress, but she didn't notice beyond standing up and compulsively running her hands down her legs.

Erik remained fixated on the spot she'd been in, which prompted her to step forward and cup his face. He started, cringed, and looked up at her. His eyes were distant, she noticed, with the previous sharpness only barely clinging to the edges of his expression.

“Erik?”

“'m fine,” he slurred. He wasn't out of it, at least, but it looked like he was heading in that direction. She wove her fingers back through his hair, the onset of panic curling through her nerves.

“Stay with me,” she breathed. “Talk to me.”

“You're going to have to do better than that, sugar.”

Raven twisted her head around so quickly that it almost hurt; but she didn't want to let go of Erik's face if she didn't have to.

The person standing behind her was unfamiliar, but, without asking, she knew it was Lady Frost. There was something in the whites of her clothes, the blue of her eyes and the sheen of her blonde hair that made it obvious. No one she'd ever met before had been such a personification of their own name. Her smile was tight, like she was amused and disapproving at the same time.

“You need to ask him specific questions to keep him talking,” she explained.

“I'm fine,” Erik growled. It was clearer than it had been before, as though Lady Frost's appearance alone had sharpened his senses, but when Raven looked at him she still had the sense that he was about to topple over if he tried to stand. His eyes were fixed on Frost, but the expression was a mock of his usual frowns and glowers.

“Of course you are, honey.”

Raven noted that she didn't walk across the room but, rather, swept across it. She was reminded of some of the etiquette tutors that had been in her father's employ to try to help her be more 'lady-like.' None of them had lasted all that long. She preferred to run around with her brother and take part in his lessons than spend all afternoon learning how to do something as useless as _glide_.

Frost seamlessly pulled Erik to his feet, tossing a cloth and bottle in Raven's direction that she barely managed to catch. “Bring that to the bathroom with you, please. I'll take care of him.”

“I—” Erik started to protest, but Frost cut him off: “Fine, he'll take care of getting himself to the bathroom and I'll ensure he doesn't run into any unforgiving flat surfaces. Better?”

Erik grunted—in a way that Raven was sure was a 'no'—and walked ambled out of the bedroom towards the bathroom. She found it endearing that he seemed to think he was in utter control of his actions when, in reality, Lady Frost seemed to be guiding him along.

The bathroom was humid with fresh steam when they slipped through the curtain, with the servants' door just clicking closed behind the last bucket-bearer. Raven looked over it again, half-expecting something to be different after so many weeks away, but nothing was. Her eyes found Erik just in time to see him stripping his pants off; which meant that a second later they relocated to the wall and she was infinitely glad that she could blame her blush on the steam.

“Stop admiring the stone and come over here,” Frost said. It only seemed to be a second later, but when she turned Erik was sitting in the water. His back was to her now, but the rigid line of his shoulders gave away the pain.

Raven crossed the room, passing over the bottle and the cloth into Frost's outstretched hands. She twisted back towards Erik, jerking her chin towards the steps leading up into the basin. “There's a bottle of wine there, pour some and have him drink it.”

She nodded—despite the fact Frost wasn't looking at her anymore—and walked around to the steps. Erik's previous guarded-animal-like movements were dulled considerably, though he did lift his head to look at her. He seemed a bit bleary, like someone waking from an extended nap, and blinked in silent expectation.

She took his hand for a moment—a hand that was far too chilled, thank you—and rubbed her palm over his fingers to warm them. He seemed impartial to it, so she set about the task of getting him to drink—which was fairly easy—and took in a breath to start in on some light questions for the sake of keeping him awake.

What she wanted to do was tell him about Charles, all the things that had been interrupted before, but she wasn't about to do that with Frost around. So she asked about the campaign, if his strategies had been right and if everyone had come home safely. Erik's answers weren't particularly enthusiastic, but she had the feeling that they wouldn't have been even if he'd been in his right mind. It seemed like Erik was desensitized to war; he'd experienced it too many times to be anything but jaded towards it. Still, he answered.

His explanations were punctuated with hisses and barks at Frost. Raven watched her delicately clean the torn skin, alternating between the cloth and her hand. The water started to run pink almost immediately after Erik sank into it, so there was no surprise when it steadily started to get worse. Thankfully the water was tinted with the shade of the tub's metal, so it wasn't as obvious as it could have been. At a few points Erik squeezed her hand, but he wasn't nearly as strong as the man who had spun her chair around with her in it.

“Keep it coming,” Frost said, gesturing towards the empty cup with her head. “It'll help with the pain and get him to sleep.”

Raven felt that Frost's medical skills left for want, but she wasn't going to argue. The bath was purely for cleaning his injuries, so it didn't take too long before Erik was being coaxed back out of the water; the wine mostly depleted by now. He looked tired and worn, and Raven was far too fixated on that to notice his nakedness this time around.

“Just tuck him into bed,” Frost explained. “You'll have to sit with him tonight, make sure he doesn't toss around, and put this on his back whenever he starts up with the pain. Instructions are on the bottle.”

She passed over a different bottle from her pocket and a fresh white cloth before giving another not-quite-amused smile and disappearing out the servants' entrance. Raven had a mind to call after her for a second, demand that she stay and do all this, but stopped herself. For one, she was Erik's wife, and for another, she could _do_ this. Maybe she couldn't be useful to Charles, but she could be useful here and now, to Erik.

Erik nearly fell over on the trip back to the bedroom; he leaned heavily on her when she set about loosening the blankets for him to stretch out on the mattress. It was a blessing that he went between the sheets without too much issue, lying on his stomach and still while she pulled the sheets up. She rested them just beneath the lowest lash mark and then walked around, climbing onto the other side of the bed. It seemed to take a good deal of concerted effort for Erik to lift his head and flop it down again facing her, but he did it.

“How're you feeling?” She rested her hand on Erik's arm, an action that he watched her do with the most exhausted of fascinations.

“Tired,” he mumbled, letting his eyes drift closed. She couldn't keep from smiling a bit, if only because he hadn't answered that he was in any remarkable pain.

But it didn't last, not when she looked over his marked up back again. The fact that the blood had been cleared away only made them look worse. Ridges of burning skin raised around fissures of deep red. He wasn't bleeding anymore—whatever Frost had applied helped with that—but the blood seemed to linger just inside, ready to flow at the slightest movement. Her stomach knotted ferociously again.

“Why would you ever stay here? Look at how he _treats_ you...”

“Have to,” Erik muttered. She started at the unexpected answer and lifted her eyes back up to him again. Erik yawned, wide, before continuing without prompting, an entirely new phenomenon. “Saved my life.”

She scoffed, the statement reminding her quite a bit of Henry's comments that Shaw's strategies were brilliant. “I doubt that.”

Erik opened his eyes only enough to frown at her. He looked like a petulant child, given how delirious he was, but she found herself still inclined to take him seriously. “Was a kid when my village was ransacked...some northwestern tribe...killed everyone, m'family...” If Erik's eyes hadn't already looked so distant, then they certainly would have just then. Or maybe Raven was projecting her attempts at imagining such a thing. “'Cept me...dunno why.”

“I'm—” But she stopped herself. If Erik was in his right mind, he probably wouldn't want to hear her apologizing for something she had no hand in or knowledge of. It seemed stupid to inflict it on him when he was clearly out of it.

He yawned again and mumbled something incoherent. “Shaw found me. Brought me to Lourdes. Trained me...”

Raven knew, even as he trailed off, that Erik probably meant Shaw had trained him to be his knight. But as she watched Erik drift off to sleep, as she went through a sleepless night assuring that he didn't roll over, as she assured that his pain was sufficiently dulled so he could sleep, she couldn't help but wonder if Shaw had just trained him to be his obedient, oblivious dog.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I want to think everyone who reads and takes the time to review. You're all awesome and you mean the world to me. I had a bit of a self-confidence break down, but I'm stable again and I hope to keep this fic going solidly. That's only possible because of all of you. : )
> 
> I'd also like to take the time to thank spicedpiano and tehslowone on tumblr! Spiced made a Keys & Cages OST ( http://spicedpiano.tumblr.com/post/14987335844/out-of-the-light-of-the-sun-a-keys-cages ) and Teh was kind enough to make two ( http://tehslowone.tumblr.com/post/16256289954/kindof-a-depiction-of-chapter-9-from-keys-and & http://tehslowone.tumblr.com/post/16180752422/for-those-who-saw-my-earlier-post-about-bitching ) beautiful graphics for the fic. It made my heart swellll~ (I feel so bad for not mentioning the OST earlier).
> 
> I feel like the tone of the fic changes a little bit from here on out, but not enough that any of you should be worried. Without further rambling, here's Chapter 10~

There was something like utter detachment about not getting out of bed. Charles didn't know exactly what he'd detached from, but he had the feeling that he was floating. Nothing around him was real, his entire world was a compilation of dull and blurred edges. Everything seemed inconsequential and, in that, everything seemed utterly pointless.

He'd failed to escape. He'd gotten someone—someone he didn't know, hadn't even _seen_ , let alone met—whipped. His life was irrevocably wrapped up in that of someone who was not just his sadistic rapist, but also his husband by law and ceremony.

Several years ago, he recalled being stretched out on the grass with Raven, wondering idly where he would be in his future. The musings then hadn't been particularly deep ones, he would admit, but he'd been worried about his rule. The older he got, the harsher he was judged and the more crucial his training became. At first he hadn't taken it seriously, it just seemed like all the other fodder of his tutors, but he'd come into realizing how important it was. He couldn't see himself as a ruler, not one as wonderful as his father.

 _Maybe this is why,_ he thought, looking out the window without seeing it. He'd never allow himself such a silly thing again—not when the outside was so far beyond him, now. _I was never meant to rule. **This** is my future. Has been all along._

And of course, how could he have possibly imagined himself here? If he had, he surely would have killed himself. There would have been far more honor in that then here in this bed.

Shaw stirred beside him in the early morning's grey light; he settled again a second later with a sigh and his arm around Charles' waist. 

Three days ago had he been last violated by Shaw, and Charles couldn't remember getting out of bed once. He wasn't sure he had, given that all the come and grime still lingered on his skin. Nothing else of any intimate nature had happened between them since the failed escape attempt; Shaw was too busy dealing with the spoils of his latest victory and seemed far too angry to want anything of the sort from Charles. Eventually that had faded, enough so that Shaw slept with him again, but the touches hadn't returned aside from the unconscious shifts in bed, the possessive holds.

In hindsight, the attempted escape was absurd. If the fact that he was _blind_ wasn't enough of a clue, there was also the fact that the entire castle was full of people who would have been looking for him on Shaw's behalf. People who Shaw clearly wasn't afraid to punish for the slightest transgression and while Charles would have liked to believe his excessive cruelty would spark some sort of rebellion, it was unlikely. He supposed he couldn't blame the lot of them for being afraid of Shaw, even if the growing darkness in his mind was lurked with just such loathing.

What options did he have left then, truly? Perhaps if there was a shred of opportunity for him to have the mask removed he would have stood a better chance, but that was less likely now than it had ever been. One key for each lock on both of his cages, and he knew where none of them were kept. Incapacitated, isolated...what _was_ the point? He couldn't even touch his sister without feeling utterly disgusted with himself, his body— _everything._

Without realizing it, his world really had narrowed down to Shaw. He wouldn't want anyone dirtying themselves on him, and at least the revulsion that came with Shaw's touches were with the man giving them rather than what they did to his body. There was no way he could possibly make Shaw any filthier than his black soul already had; but the rest of the world, glittering and white beyond his prison...well, the least he could do was keep it that way if it happened to venture too close to his cage, couldn't he?

In which case, there was little left to do but accept it. He deserved this, in some ways, not just for what happened after his failed escape but for not taking his responsibilities as crowned prince seriously enough. It wasn't uncommon for laziness to be punished, and though he'd never considered his disinterest in ruling _laziness_ , maybe that was what it had been. He'd filled his head with other studies and sorely neglected the things he ought to have been paying attention to. This was just the Heavens way of telling him that this was where he was meant to be by pursuing the path he'd chosen.

His life would be easier, then, if he started acting like he was accepting it. Shaw did show some leniency when he behaved in the way wanted of him, and there had been stretches of days where he had managed to dissuade Shaw from sex. Even in the days when it had happened, if Charles choked down his abhorrence of the act then it wasn't nearly so rough.

 _Perhaps then,_ he mused. _That will prove my way out._

Not utter freedom, but perhaps as close as he stood a chance of getting anymore. If he could placate Shaw, place himself on his good side and remain there, then perhaps it would open a different world to him. He didn't think Shaw would ever let him go, and perhaps he'd never let him see outside of this room again, but at least there was a chance to make his life more bearable. Small movements could, quite possibly, alter his entire situation. Maybe, eventually, he'd learn to be comfortable in his own skin again.

 _Well,_ he thought unsteadily, feeling Shaw stir again and pull him closer. He tried to focus on the warmth and strength of the chest pressed to his back, the large spread of Shaw's fingers. _Let's not get ahead of myself._

All it did was suffocate him.

\--------

Erik wasn't really in any state to get out of bed, but her insisting clearly wasn't doing anything to sway him. It had only been a week since what had happened and she was still sitting with him at night to apply salve as he needed it. For the past few days he'd been discussing going down to the stables, though she'd rather assumed that was delirium talking. The conversation had come up out of the blue, and essentially anything he said that didn't revolve around tired, hungry, or pain just seemed to be delirium talking.

Lady Frost hadn't been back to tell him _not_ to leave the bed, though, and Raven really didn't have the bodily sway to keep Erik there when he'd recovered some of his strength. Enough of his strength, in fact, to get out of bed and get dressed before she'd properly woken up that morning. He had been staring contemplatively at a shirt when she stirred to immediately try rushing him back to bed. That hadn't worked quite as well as she'd been hoping.

“I'm fine,” he'd said. He'd been frowning, but he didn't really look all that _angry_ with her. “I'm just trying to decide if I want to put a shirt on.”

She'd stepped back to look at his back. It still looked like it had been mauled by wolves, although whatever Emma had given her seemed to be helping greatly. The wounds didn't gape nearly as much as they had the first night and day; but that didn't mean that Erik should have been getting out of bed in her estimation either. Shaw hadn't summoned for him and he had the luxury of being able to relax for once.

“I wouldn't,” she'd replied. “But you're doing a fine job of _not_ listening to me, so I'd quite hate for you to ruin your streak.”

That time he'd chuckled, which surprised her more than anything up to that point, “I suppose you're right.” He'd tossed the shirt on in a quick gesture, though she still caught sight of the grimace that passed over his features. It was a loose enough shirt that it shouldn't have caused him much trouble, but the action itself was a different story.

She'd crossed her arms, doing her best to look disapproving, but it hadn't phased Erik in the slightest. In fact, there was a light smile quirking at the edge of his mouth.

“I'm _fine_ ,” he'd repeated, then turned away to start pulling his boots on. “Quite thanks to you, I'd imagine.”

And that was how, without even trying, he'd managed to talk her into going down to the stables with him in the late morning sun. It was surprisingly bright for a November day, but that was compared to Westchester weather. She didn't know how the climate changed in Lourdes, but if their November days were going to consist of sun and blue skies with the slight crispness of fall, then she'd almost dare to think it was a decent place. The past few days had been gray, and it had been easy to assume that it was tipping into the bitter winter months.

“And we're going to the stables, why?” She asked, glancing up towards Erik. Some of his grim disposition had returned—the smile was gone and she thought the pain was spiking again—but he didn't seem to be in an entirely terrible mood. That was certainly unexpected.

“So you can meet Tristan.”

She blinked. “I've already—”

“I know,” he said. “But...properly.”

She wasn't going to question the idea of _properly_ meeting Erik's horse, because it was clear that Erik was very fond of him. More than that, it was clear that he was important to Erik in a way that she hadn't yet come to appreciate. If there was something in this world important to Erik _besides_ Shaw, then she wanted to know about it.

A stable hand was mucking out a stall when they entered, but Erik's lack of reaction told her that it wasn't Tristan's. She wandered after Erik, looking over a few of the other horses as they moved past the stalls. She'd always liked horses. Arthur—Charles' horse—had been rather friendly. Tristan had seemed nice as well, which seemed a bit surprising for a war horse. 

“Wait here,” Erik said, twisting towards her after he unlocked the stall. She watched him disappear inside, but remained out of the way. It only took a few minutes—and a few quiet mutters from Erik that she couldn't quite catch—before he was leading the practically silver horse out of his stall.

Tristan looked even more powerful without all the dress for going off into battle. His obvious affection for Erik made it clear that he was well cared for beyond prompt feeding and daily grooming by stable hands. A smile tugged at her when he bumped against Erik's chest, sniffing for the apple they'd stopped by the kitchen to snag. She glanced at Erik, silently asking—and receiving—permission to step forward. She ran her fingers through the coarse hair of Tristan's mane and stroked her other hand down his snout.

They spent some time in silence—aside from Tristan crunching away at his apple when Erik finally offered it—and she cast a few glanced in Erik's direction. She wouldn't say that the trip to the stables had done him a world of good, but he looked better, somehow, despite the lingering lines of exhaustion and pain in his face. Last night was the first night he seemed to be sleeping properly, she realized, without waking up or threatening to roll over.

“How long have you had him?” She ventured to say, once the silence got to the point that she wondered if she was missing the purpose of their visit.

“About ten years,” Erik replied, running his hand over Tristan's shoulder. “He was the first thing I owned completely, on my own.”

Suddenly their visit made a little bit more sense, when held in the light of what she remembered Erik saying several nights ago. They hadn't discussed his slip-up, Erik rather gave her the sense that she wasn't supposed to have heard it in the first place, but that didn't mean she hadn't been curious about it. She'd already committed it to memory, even if the thought of trying to get more out of him had slipped from her mind while she focused on his care.

“So, that means you've been with Shaw—”

“Fifteen years.” Erik focused on what he was doing, despite the fact the slow movements of his hands couldn't have required nearly that much attention. “He saved me when I was seventeen.”

She looked at where her nails were scratching at Tristan's neck, understanding the appeal Erik found in it. “I'm sorry—”

“Don't.”

She swallowed the rest of her words and nodded; after all, that was exactly what she'd been expecting when she'd nearly said it a few days ago. It wasn't so much that she thought it would go over better now as it was that she didn't know what else to say, but it hardly seemed appropriate to say _nothing_ either.

“I...suppose that explains a lot,” she tried, flicking her eyes towards Erik. He still wasn't looking at her, and she was beginning to sense it was because he was having second thoughts.

“I don't suffer spoiled aristocracy,” he agreed. “My King may not be the most forgiving man in the world, but at the very least he knows how it is the world _actually_ works, as opposed to thinking it some wholesome, forgiving place.”

She didn't know what to do with what Erik had just said, and she found herself staring at him blankly. Slowly, Charles' voice, scattered and fearful, grew louder in her ears. She focused on her hand again, smiling without mirth.

“Is that what you think he's doing? Educating my brother on the ways of the world?”

“I—”

“Don't answer it,” she quietly added. She didn't want to hear it. Not when they'd had this discussion before, and certainly not when Erik hadn't seen Charles the way that she had.

The further they tread on this path, the less and less likely it seemed that Erik would ever understand. There was always a chance, she supposed, that Shaw's words had some merit, but she couldn't see them. It was no longer a matter of refusing to, but being unable to. The state that he had left her brother in, the way Charles _burned_ at her touch, all of it made matters quite clear to her. Would seeing Charles give Erik the same clarity?

“He wants to meet you,” she blurted out. Her mind raced in the second that followed before Erik answered. The back of her neck heated, well aware that she was doing something she probably shouldn't have ventured upon.

“What?”

“Charles,” she continued, keeping her voice low. When she moved her eyes to Erik again she found that he was watching her now, an alertness in his stance that hadn't been there before. “Remember? I told you when you first got back.”

It seemed like Erik had forgotten, and she'd considered not reminding him. She didn't know why Erik had been flogged—he'd never told her—but she had the sense that it had to do with her brother. All the commotion and the sudden silence, it just felt like something that had her brother at its center. She could hardly have expected Erik to remember such a thing after all that had happened, then. 

Erik's expression shifted to something far more grave than it had been before. A hardness dulled his eyes just before they turned away from her again.

“That isn't a good idea.”

She blinked, dropped her hands from Tristan. “Erik—”

He glared at her then with a level of anger she'd never seen before; it was enough to startle her. Her mouth moved on something other than coherent thought. “He had something to do with it, didn't he?”

“He started apologizing to the King by the second lash,” Erik said, and it was apparent that he was trying to make a complicated matter simple. “As though that would _sway_ anything. If he's going to make me his whipping boy, then he may as well have the decency to stay composed through it.”

She felt her heart constrict and release, but no actual relief came. She reached out to wrap her fingers around Erik's arm and he twitched, almost pulling away before he caught himself and stayed where he was. He still didn't look at her, instead giving his resolute face to Tristan's withers. 

“Oh Erik,” she sighed, bumping her forehead against his shoulder. “He wasn't apologizing to Shaw. He was apologizing to _you_. And before you argue with me about my brother, I _know_ him.”

She straightened up, turning to head back inside. It wasn't all that cold, but the air in the stables was chilled now. And maybe part of her was just hoping that her words would have some effect.

“And if you got to know him, you'd know that what I'm saying is true.” She looked over his shoulder. “Or, at least, you'd have ground to stand on.”

Erik didn't reply.

\--------

Shaw had told him to stay in bed; the order was rather redundant. His ankle had stopped swelling since his trip down the stairs, but it still hurt. All that aside, it was bound to keep the swelling down and everything in place while it healed. This was practical in application, but it was also _tied_ to the foot of the bed. With one hand bound to the headboard and his ankle to the spragging board, he couldn't do much but squirm slightly in any direction. That became very pointless very early on.

He'd managed to charm his way into getting a bath, however. His skin was now scrubbed clean of all the lingering come that had accumulated, and that had done wonders for his outlook—even if it was only on a temporary basis. In fact, in the nearly two weeks that had followed since his failed attempt, he'd gone back to having regular baths and meals. The sheets and duvet had been changed out, making the material resting over him now comfortable and clean. 

Granted, the burden lifted by being clean was miniscule compared to others, but he'd shifted his mindset to taking what he could get out of an atrocious situation. If that happened to be clean sheets and a clean body, then he was hardly about to tell himself he didn't need it.

He picked at the strip of cloth around his wrist without any intention of actually getting free. He couldn't bind it again himself and there was no telling when Shaw would return. A silence had lapsed between them, but Shaw's disinterest was swayed quickest by his libido and his anger. While Charles would rather incur neither, he'd prefer the libido for simply being the easier of the two.

In the silence of the suite, the click of the servants' door seemed powerful despite its distance. A chill of vulnerability crept up his spine, but he choked it down. He'd already been served before, after all, and it wasn't like he was any more dressed than he had been the last time.

Of course, where that was somewhat acceptable with sounds that had no true physical presence, it seemed significantly worse when he discovered the person shuffling into the bedroom was Raven.

“Oh, _Charles_...” 

“Oh _God_.”

The panic that he'd experienced during her visit weeks ago was replaced by mortification that revolved solely around the fact that he was naked. It didn't matter that he was covered by sheets and a duvet and that Raven would have no reason to move either of them. What mattered was the fact that he was wearing nothing but his damn _cages_ , and that she had atrocious timing.

His heart hammered, making him more alert at the same time that it blocked out his ability to hear her movements. He was reminded suddenly of his time in the dungeon, his senses going haywire in the panic of being unable to see. This was similar, but he knew that Raven was no monster. Just a very, very sweet and loving inconvenience.

The blankets shifted subtly when she leaned against the edge of the bed, and he could guess that she wanted to touch him again. They'd both been very tactile people, and even now his skin crawled with an ache he'd failed to notice. He wanted to feel her, and yet the idea made him sick at the same time.

“Don't touch me,” he said, managing to keep his voice controlled. The hysteria was there, just beneath his carefully mounted shields, but he kept it down. In some part of his mind he'd known this would happen, that she would come again if she found the opportunity. He only wished that knowledge of the fact would have helped him to prepare for it.

“I won't,” she promised. “Unless you...”

He tilted his face in her direction, tried to imagine her looking at him. The mental image had gotten so mottled in the past few months. He shook his head and tugged on his wrist out of instinct. “I—” But the tug he gave to his ankle cut him off with a hiss instead. He froze, waiting for the pain to subside.

Raven sounded worried when she spoke up again. The vague outlined of warmth retracted from the edge of his senses, receded into the dark. “What is it?”

“Twisted my ankle,” he told her, forcing himself to relax his leg again. It gave another stubborn twinge when he rested it on the bed, but otherwise just throbbed dully back to its numb cave. He turned in her direction again, but, without the warmth there to guide him, he felt foolish. “That's all it is.”

That wasn't _really_ all it was, but he wasn't about to tell her anything more than he had to. For a second he regretted telling her about his ankle, but she would just worry if he tried to shrug it off. Besides, the pain helped to pull him back into himself a little more. Nakedness aside, he was alright. He just had to be.

“How...” He cleared his throat and kept a firm grip on his composure. He'd damn well sprain his ankle all over again if pain was the only way he could keep it up. “How do you keep getting in here, exactly?”

The aura of heat came a bit closer again and, after a tentative moment, she seated herself on the edge of the bed. It tugged on the blankets a bit, but he told himself it was nothing she hadn't seen before. True that Raven had never seen him naked, but in a sheet after a bath often enough, or just his trousers when he was training. He wasn't covered in Shaw's come now, and most of the bruises must have faded. Aside from the mask, he told himself he didn't look any different; there was simply no way she could see the past few months on his skin.

A sound filtered through the air, and he swapped out a blurry image of her concern for one of her laughter. This one felt clearer, the sound sharpening the edges. He could picture her face, rife with the cleverness of knowing she'd broken a rule and being altogether too pleased with herself, as she tried to hide it with a curtain of hair or behind her hand.

“Erik's good friends with the help, remember? And it turns out they...well, rather like me,” she explained.

His memories of her last visit were fuzzy, scratched out by the claws of his fit. He knew they discussed things, but it was hard to pin-point details.

Still, he nodded and pretended that he remembered. “Right, of course. I just...thought you implied that it was a one-time favor. I didn't realize...”

He trailed off, trying to find a way to phrase it that doesn't make sound like he wished she would stop coming. True, some part of him wanted her to just forget about him and live her life to whatever extent Erik allowed her, but he couldn't tell her that. It would have been dreadfully cruel and he missed her. He hated what he'd become but he missed her so much that it hurt to think about it.

“It won't be all that often,” she confessed. It sounded like she'd read his mind and was trying to soothe him. Charles felt like an ass. “I just missed you. I _miss_ you. And if I can have any opportunity to see you, then I'm...” She trailed off, but came back with firm resolve. “Then I'm going to take it, Charles.”

“Raven...” But what could he say? There was no way he could tell his sister that he'd resigned himself to this and that she'd be better off forgetting she'd ever had a brother. As much as he wanted to, he didn't think Raven would listen for a minute, and he supposed that made it that much harder. No matter how far into the darkness Shaw dragged him, Raven would see irrevocable light. 

Instead he cleared his throat. “How's Erik, then?”

If Raven was startled by the sudden reply, she didn't show it in any way that he could register. “He's doing better now that he's healed. He's stubborn, that's for certain.”

He frowned. “Healed? Shaw didn't mention that he'd been hurt during the campaign.”

He swore he could feel Raven stiffen despite their lack of contact, but that very well could have been the silence that rushed between them. It wasn't the comfortable sort, but rather the type that came like a rapid and swept away any sense of ease and understanding. Charles tensed without knowing why, feeling the edges of dread creep upon him in the black. Normally he would read her expression—anyone's expression—and discover what to do or say. Now he was helpless, and just when he thought he might crack she spoke again.

“He wasn't.”

That, oddly enough, did not help. “What? I don't understand.”

He tried not to snap at her, but it was hard. He wasn't angry with her, he had no reason to be angry with her, but being out of the loop of things had always been disarming for him. It only seemed magnified when he was unable to see, and it reminded him of all the little ways Shaw reaffirmed how helpless he truly was. This was just another of those little things beyond his control.

“I thought...I thought Shaw _told_ you.”

“Dammit. Don't _do_ this, Raven,” he ground out, fighting back the urge to shout. “Just tell me what's happened.”

He thought that he felt her flinch, and it wasn't until that moment that he realized she'd rested her hand on the bed beside him. It was probably the shift of her fingers that registered, but he could hardly notice a thing beyond the tight wire he was strung along by.

“I'm sorry,” she hurried. “Erik...Erik was the one who caught you on the stairs.”

For a moment the pieces didn't connect, and he nearly cursed for it. But then they snapped into place like the crack of a whip. His heart plummeted through the back of his chest and it wasn't until his head hit the pillow that he took note of how he'd been lifting it in his anxiety.

So, Erik had been the one who found him sneaking down the stairs then. It wasn't as though he'd met Erik, and yet it hit him with all the weight of putting a name to a face after years of knowing someone. 

“I—I'm sorry,” he said. His mouth was running without his consent, which wasn't all that uncommon even if it did lead to pointless babbling. “I didn't realize...”

“You don't have to apologize.” She was probably trying to be soothing, but Charles was only aware of all the foam in his chest coalescing into a giant bubble in his gut. “Really, Charles. Erik's fine, I promise. He's already walking around, being his normal self again.”

“That doesn't change anything,” he murmured. “I shouldn't have...”

“What, Charles?”

Raven's voice was shaking, like she didn't want to answer the question or, maybe, she already knew the answer. Maybe both. He didn't know.

“I shouldn't have tried to run.”

The words seemed to thud in the silence of the room. He reflexively clenched and relaxed his hands, feeling like he needed to something but without any clue what. He wanted to thrash or scream, maybe explode if he had the option, but he couldn't. The best option he had available were the light tremors that started running through them, and those he struggled to suppress the second he felt them. He didn't need Raven to see that. He never wanted her to see him shaking—not after last time.

“Charles.” Raven sounded surprisingly far away. “Charles, listen to me. Hey.”

Her voice was soft, but not quiet. A gentle weight fluttered over the material covering his stomach, making him reflexively arch away, but it was far too hesitant to be Shaw. It took another few moments for it to return, and when it did it was stroking, although just slightly. Raven was running her hand from the top of the blankets to his abdomen and back up again. The strokes were slow and even, a counter balance to the torrent of his heartbeat. _When had that happened?_

“I'm alright,” he lied. He turned away from her and tried to give himself the illusion that he had any control over the present situation. He didn't know why he bothered, however, as much of his life hadn't been in his control anyway; why should it start now?

“I don't believe you for a second,” she replied, but her voice was fond. Something shifted in his chest, like a stone being displaced, and his next breath was more challenging than he had originally expected.

He swallowed past the knot that had formed in his throat, but his saliva burned like absinthe on its way down. His mind buzzed, _It's Raven. Your Raven. Your **sister** , you idiot. Are you really going to behave this way? Keep going hysterical whenever she visits? Pull yourself together._ Something in her presence must have beaten back the darker voice of his submission, because it didn't offer any critical replies. It didn't say a thing.

He moved his free hand up, though he couldn't bring himself to tilt his face towards her again. If it was the closest he could come to looking, then he didn't want to 'look' at all.

“This might...well, I should say it _is_ rather silly, but...” He twitched his fingers, heavily considered dropping his hand again, but pushed on. “I still don't much want you—or anyone, really—touching me...it's just that—”

He supposed that there might have been something in what he said last time that he couldn't recall; he supposed that maybe Raven was still able to read him in ways that he had forgotten about or never knew of; he supposed he could have been obvious. Regardless of if it was any of those reasons or others, she seemed to know exactly what he was getting at, and for that Charles was infinitely thankful.

She didn't hold his hand, but instead pressed her fingertips against his. Thumb to thumb, pointer to pointer—all five aligned perfectly, sealing their distinctly different prints together. Raven's were warm against his, and soft despite the nearly non-existent contact. Well, he supposed it might have been non-existent to other people. Nothing touched—not their palms, not their wrists, not even the rest of the length of their fingers—but the fingertips. To him it was the beginning and end of his dark little world.

“Thank you,” he murmured, pressing his fingers a little firmer against hers in an echo of a squeeze. “I didn't think you'd remember.”

She laughed, and he thought he heard tears on the edge of her voice. “Of course I remember, you twit.” Then her voice softened. “It's only been a few months, Charles. A _hard_ few months for you, I know, but you're still you underneath everything. You remember that, don't you?”

He swallowed and nodded shakily. His hand dropped away from hers and back to the sheet resting over his chest. He thought his hand was starting to shake and he didn't want to risk her taking notice of it.

What he felt like was a terrified child, less than a glimmer of who he might have been if none of this had happened.

She sighed quietly, and he thought he heard her hand fall back to her lap. When she spoke up again—conversations were odd when he couldn't see someone preparing to talk—he'd been expecting something soft or concerned. Instead she sounded rather cheerful, like a good memory had just taken root.

“I might be able to talk Erik into visiting,” she explained. Charles' chest constricted.

“Oh?”

“Mmhm. He's reluctant but I think his curiosity will win out.” She hesitated, and he could feel her studying him. “Unless you don't want him to come?”

He was faced with a choice: tell her he didn't want to see Erik, and admit that he wasn't as fine as he was—admittedly, rather poorly—pretending he was; or, say that would be fine and, perhaps, be on the road to convincing her that he was okay, inconsiderate of the truth. The former would certainly be less taxing, even if he did want to properly apologize to Erik for what had happened and properly thank him for taking care of Raven. 

The latter, however, had all the measures of necessity. He _needed_ to apologize, and to thank him. Erik was taking good care of Raven, from what he could tell, and probably the source of her new confidence. It also risked the fact that maybe Erik wasn't quite as helpful as he was pretending to be, and was simply waiting for the proper slip-up to alert Shaw to these little visits. But, perhaps because of the whipping, Charles didn't feel that was likely.

“No,” he said, then frowned. “I mean, yes. I'd like to meet him.”

“You're sure?”

He nodded. “Unreservedly.”

He managed a smile when she said, “Great!”

He was pretty sure he even meant it, too.

\--------

Raven had been persistent in the weeks that followed what had been his and Charles' first meeting. Whenever he called it that, she would argue that it wasn't a proper meeting and didn't count. It was really the only ammunition she had in terms of trying to get the two of them to meet, and Erik couldn't say that he was swayed.

But every once in a while she would say something like the what had come up when they'd been in the stables, and he'd have to give himself pause to think about it. She was accurate in the fact that he didn't know Charles, but he didn't see why that should make much of a difference. It hadn't been until she suggested that they meet—“Properly, Erik, that time on the steps just doesn't count”—that he really started to consider it. That was purely because she insisted that Charles had been apologizing to him in the dank cell that day, and not Shaw.

He didn't believe her for a second, but he couldn't give any reason as to why. Or, at least, any reason that he _did_ offer was immediately shot down because he didn't know Charles. There was really no way to argue against the fact that her logic was perfectly sound, and, if he didn't think he'd regret it, he might have said he preferred her when she was meek. 

Still, it did make him curious. Despite his best attempts to ignore the void in his new life, it was impossible not to wonder about Charles. The only things that he knew about him were the things that Raven would indulge in telling him, and those were useless or singing his praises. If he went by Raven's estimates, Charles would have no faults to speak of, and Erik didn't believe that to be true of anyone, much less royalty. 

He sighed into the dark of his bedroom. His eyes had already adjusted, casting shadows where the moonlight struck the few meager things he had about it. Nothing caught his interest even though he would have killed for a distraction. It would have been far easier than admitting he was taking Raven's suggestion into consideration. Not only was that absurd, but it would be going directly against orders from his King. He'd never done that—or at least not in so many years—and the memory of the whip was still fresh on his back.

Then again, he'd already broken the rule by showing Raven the way, hadn't he? It couldn't have possibly complicated matters much more if he decided to just tag along. One visit, just to get as much information as he could to hold his ground against her claims. Charles had to have flaws, even if his eagerness to lick Shaw's heel had to be one of them. Certainly it might have seemed somewhat hypocritical, but Erik knew for a fact he would have stuck by something he decided to do even if it had been as stupid as what Charles had ventured.

 _He'd have been better off jumping out the window,_ he thought. His mind reeled back to the stairs, the way Charles had slipped and practically rolled right into him. Best attempts aside, Erik hadn't managed to save him from hitting his head and the sharp ' _crack_ ' had followed him for a few days after the whipping. Shaw hadn't taken Charles out of his suite in weeks, now that he thought about it, and he found himself hoping that Charles wasn't _too_ hurt.

Charles had felt lithe under the robes, even thinner, Erik thought, than when he'd first arrived in Lourdes. His face wasn't lacking in soft edges, but he couldn't chase away the feeling that Charles had lost weight since being here. In the few seconds he'd braced himself to lift Charles off the stairs, he'd noted there wasn't much there to contend with.

Of course, none of that was any of his business. It was no one's but Shaw's and Charles'. 

_It isn't as though Shaw ordered you not to think about him, and thinking won't do any harm,_ a voice pointed out. It was his own, but it was certainly the part of him most influenced by Raven over these past few months. He would _never_ allow her the knowledge that she was affecting him.

Of course, that was where things always started, with _thinking_. He'd helped Raven in to meet Charles in the first place because he'd spent far too much time thinking about it. Nothing good could come from him overstating his place in either of their lives—more so Charles'. He was the King's consort, end of story, next book. Holding his own in arguments with Raven wasn't worth ruining what he'd spent fifteen years of his life building.

But maybe answering his questions about Charles was worth the risk. The man was an anomaly at this point, and he couldn't say he cared for that. Even if they weren't directly close, Charles was close to his King and that was important. Anyone who was close to Shaw should have been someone he kept an eye on, even if Shaw was determined to prevent it. Not that he thought Charles would be much of a threat anyway. By this point, Raven had certainly mustered more control over herself than he'd seen from Charles yet.

His mind refreshed the scene of that day on the stairs and the metal mask around Charles' eyes, as though reminding him of all the little excuses Charles could have presented to defend himself. He'd braced one arm under Charles' head to check for blood when he'd first fell, but Erik had only the faintest recollection of it. Had it been heavier because of the mask? He closed his eyes, tried to imagine what such a thing would feel like, but found that he couldn't. Perhaps that was reason enough.

\--------

“ _Ow!_ ” Charles hissed, instinctively pulling on his leg. Shaw's grip remained firm, but he didn't do much beyond keeping it in his grip. Charles set his jaw, fell back against the pillows, and wished he could at least _see_ the ceiling to focus on it. Shaw had been nothing short of reluctant with removing his mask, an extension of his punishment, he supposed. Although it did come off daily, it wasn't usually until they were going to bed.

Shaw managed to not sound too pleased with causing him pain, and Charles could almost picture him not even looking up from the work he was doing on his ankle. “More mobility than you had before, good.”

Charles didn't reply, but that was more from not having anything to say than willful defiance. Shaw continued to gently rotate his foot, turning his ankle in an assortment of directions, while Charles tried not to flinch. It would have been easier if it was just a steady ache, but there were sharp stabs of pain whenever it was turned too far in one direction or another. Those were harder to ignore, like running into furniture when the walk was going smoothly otherwise.

After a few more moments, Shaw had him twist his ankle on his own. He obliged for several minutes before his ankle was bandaged from foot to calf again. The swelling had gone down, so there wasn't need for it, but he figured Shaw's purpose was just liking the look and feel of it. Beside that, it provided an easy excuse to keep him tied down. Not that he'd ever needed an excuse before.

“You'll be able to walk without a limp soon,” Shaw said, stretching out beside him. To prevent any pressure wounds from forming, Charles had been permitted to get up periodically, but never without Shaw's supervision and he no longer was allowed to leave the suite. Other than that he was bound to the bed while Shaw was busy, no longer given free reign of his prison.

“That will do me little good if you deny me the opportunity,” he pointed out, still keeping his bound eyes to the ceiling. He felt Shaw's chest swell against his side but no anger came of it. Instead a hand spread across the chilled skin of his stomach, and Charles had to fight not to suck in a breath. It was a fight he won.

“I'm not terribly keen to offer you any more opportunities, my prince,” Shaw replied simply. “I would have thought that was rather obvious.”

One of the outstanding problems with dealing with Sebastian Shaw was the fact that, despite months in his bed, Charles couldn't always predict the way a conversation would go. Shaw was easier to understand with every passing day—more so now that he'd truly opened his eyes to what he was dealing with—but it still wasn't safe to say he rehearsed conversations in his mind. What it was safe to say was that he knew this conversation was coming, and that he'd only have one shot at it before it faded back into the dark again.

“To be fair, you hardly _offered_ me the last one. I simply took it.”

“I suppose, but it was my own leniency you took advantage of. I daresay I'm going to vehemently _avoid_ making that mistake again.”

“And so you intend to keep me chained to this bed for the rest of my life?”

“I'm having the collar made as we speak.”

Shaw had never been much for jokes, but Charles had the sense that had been one. For a moment his heart stuttered in his chest, the rest of his body paralyzed with the idea of being chained to the bed like an animal to a stake, but then he felt Shaw's fingers trail over his stomach. The strokes weren't easy to read, but they were languid, and a second later he felt a muted shudder in Shaw's chest. _A stifled laugh?_

“Liar.” He tried to keep his voice playful and light, but it was difficult to remember what either of those things were anymore. He must have come close, however, because soon Shaw was nuzzling against his hair. His breath brushed across Charles' throat.

“I'd like to allow you some freedom, of course, but you've done nothing to inspire any confidence that you deserve it.”

“I know.”

He did. For a while he had been handling his acting well, but his end goal was too spectacular. With rearranged priorities, however, he didn't see why he wouldn't be able to earn some trust. He needed it. Even if he couldn't manipulate his way into an escape, he had every confidence—and, admittedly, his confidence was in short supply—that he could make his situation here more bearable. 

But that all had to start somewhere.

He tilted his head against Shaw's. It wasn't much, but there was no point in spouting off promises that he couldn't keep.

“But what's the point in dragging me back here and punishing me if you won't let me try to redeem myself?” Shaw was partially laying on his free arm, but he could bend the elbow enough to move. He threaded his fingers through the coarse strands along the back of Shaw's head, tentative and slow. Shaw tensed under his fingertips, but Charles guessed it was only a sudden awareness of the situation.

Skeptically, Shaw replied. “I suppose.”

Charles swallowed and tried to keep his pulse from jumping. “It doesn't have to be today, or tomorrow, but you must be curious whether or not I've really...” Shaw pulled back, and, in the stillness, Charles thought he could feel his eyes on him. “...learned my lesson.”

Shaw hummed thoughtfully. “And you claim that you have?”

 _Careful,_ he coached. Truthfully, a simple interaction shouldn't have been so draining, but this was Shaw. It was _Shaw_ , and he'd already messed up so much. The man had moved everything into his corner, and Charles knew to treat whatever upper hand he had as nothing more than a temporary illusion. He summoned up the last dregs of bravery and finesse from the far reaches of his mind.

“I claim...that you won't know if you keep me this way.”

For a moment he was suspended in nothing; even the warmth of Shaw's hand had become stale—not cool, but his body had adjusted to it to the point it didn't register when he wasn't moving it. He was aware of every small twitch of his body, from the distant throb in his ankle to the flutter of his heartbeat. 

The bed shifted, and though it was slight it crashed over his nerves as though he'd been dropped into a lake. He sucked in a breath just before Shaw's words were teasing his ear. “Know that if you try such a stupid thing again, my prince, that collar _will_ become a reality; and its chain will have very few links.”

\--------

“ _Really_?” Raven's voice was more of a squeal than a question, but Erik didn't mind it if only because it was a clear expression of excitement.

“Really.”

The next thing he knew, she had arms locked around his neck and was murmuring a quick succession of 'thank you's into his ear. He felt like he had just given her some extravagant gift rather than agreed to visit her brother with her sometime.

“You'll like him, Erik, I know it,” she said, letting go and stepping back. He took note of the fact that Henry seemed to shuffle a bit at the quick embrace, but he didn't pay it much mind. If he wanted to be insecure that was his choice. The awkwardness seemed to evaporate when she practically skipped back over to Henry took one of his hands in both of hers anyway.

“I'm not going to see whether or not I _like_ him, I'm just going to prove a point.”

“What point?”

Erik crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. They'd made the trip down to Henry's shop to discuss this in large part because he didn't know if Shaw's concerns about what had happened had waned. The King had been too wrapped up in diplomatic investments to properly gauge.

“That your brother isn't as perfect as you make him out to be,” Erik replied. “And that he wasn't apologizing to me for what happened.”

He'd expected Raven to get riled and argue, but she just grinned instead. “Good luck with that.”

He frowned. “I don't need luck, I know what people are like.”

“Not my brother.”

“Is your brother a person?”

“Nice try, but not by your definition, no.” She smirked, clearly pleased with herself, and Erik knew that he was to blame for that. The confidence suited her, but he didn't care for it being used against him, thank you. But that was, of course, what he had set himself up for. He would have damned his lack of foresight if he cared more about it.

He settled on “We'll see” before moving on. “Shaw starts his diplomatic meetings in December, so visits might be easier then. I realize that's a few more weeks from now, but apparently Charles has gotten on just fine without meeting me, so I don't see any need to hurry.”

The look on Raven's face betrayed her eagerness, but her relenting betrayed a serious growth. In a matter of months she had grown from a whiny child who felt entitled to everything to a young woman who understood the war zone she was in. Moves needed to be calculated, and it wouldn't do either of them any good to be over eager and rush in when a perfect opportunity only required them to wait a bit longer.

“Diplomatic meetings?”

He nodded. “Towards the end of the year he likes to reconcile the expanded empire, meet with its people and set up whatever governing body he might need.”

“Namely, inserting one of his corrupted lackeys?” 

Erik narrowed his eyes, but refrained from commenting further on that. “The point is, we'll have until March.”

“March?” Henry asked.

“That's when the meetings end and he goes back to campaigning. We'll both be leaving more frequently once the winter season is firmly passed.”

She smiled in a way that seemed, to Erik, a bit more like a smirk. “That's plenty of time.”

Before he could ask what that meant, she was chattering away at Henry again. As much as he might have liked to believe it was just plenty of time for him to meet Charles, he had the sense that Raven had something else in mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I forgot to mention on LJ that the fingertip-touching-thing I actually borrowed from _The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time_ by Mark Haddon. So I'm mentioning it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! It's been over a month since I last updated and for that I'm very, very sorry. Things have been busy with school (this semester in particular is killing me) and part of it is laziness. It's about...2AM where I am right now, and I was going to push this update off until later today, but I can't sleep and so I decided to go for it now. For better or for worse.
> 
> I'm on Spring Break right now, and I'm really hoping to get at least another chapter or two done that way I might, -might- be able to upload another one before I go back to terrible campus/school life. I make no promises, though!
> 
> I'd like to thank you all for the support, too. It means a lot to me, and it really drives me to finish this fic so I don't disappoint you. : )

**DECEMBER**

Charles was certain the only reason Shaw was so quick to forgive was because he wouldn't have time to drag out the punishment. At first Charles had been suspicious of Shaw's good mood and resolution to let him up again after his ankle healed, but, when Darwin had let it slip that Shaw had approaching diplomatic meetings, Charles knew the truth. Shaw would be in and out of the castle over the course of the next few months, and he wouldn't be able to enjoy any punishment he exacted. In some humorless way, Charles supposed that he could thank Shaw's sadism for that much.

His ankle was mostly mended by the morning Shaw was set to depart. It still hurt to be twisted in some ways, but the bandages helped him to avoid that. He could navigate between the rooms on his own again and Shaw, for the most part, didn't seem to mind it. Still, the lapse of calm between them came with necessary sacrifice—if what was left of him could constitute as something pure enough to sacrifice.

He fumbled with his hands, unused to having them free and not attempting to shove Shaw away, before settling on the choice to grip Shaw's biceps. That earned him a pleased growl and teeth landing on his neck, working steadily against already marked-up skin. Charles tilted his head back, a sharp breath whizzing through his teeth as Shaw thrust that much harder into him. He probably considered it a reward for the subservience. 

Charles struggled to focus on the feeling, the contrast between this and that night after the whipping in the dungeons. Shaw still wasn't exactly gentle, but his movements were somehow more...humane. The way his hips rocked against him wasn't rough and forceful, just eager. His teeth left marks of desire in Charles' skin, but they weren't carnal. There was a difference, a distinct one, that meant his experiment into the depths of submission was successful.

If he blocked out everything, every small detail about who Shaw was and how he got here and what had led him to this point, it was tolerable. Almost enjoyable, even. He'd gotten accustomed to pressure of Shaw's cock filling him, the sucking of his mouth, the way his fingers teased across his thighs with knowledgeable caresses. Shaw knew his body, for better or for worse, and the burn of pleasure could be counted the same to his mind and body no matter who he was with. He just had to focus; he had to let himself go.

He found the entire process easier in practice than it had been in theory, which he credited to his willingness to detach himself from his mind. A necessary evil, he decided, because thinking about it would lead him in circles he couldn't afford to be in.

He tested hooking his leg on Shaw's hip, shifting the angle and canting his hips off the pillow shoved under his hips, when he was thrust into again. A shudder ran havoc through his body and he groaned, uninhibited by thought, as his fingers clamped tighter against Shaw's arms. The muscle beneath his fingers was strong, faintly slick with perspiration and shaking with the beginnings of strain. 

Shaw's teeth bit down on a spot just beneath the curve of his jaw just as his thumb swiped against the underside of Charles' cock. It easily sent Charles over, as he let his body contort into an arch beneath Shaw's and his inner walls grip hard against the intrusion of his cock. Shaw grunted and followed a few seconds later; his come was hot to the afterglow-tinged nerves.

The dregs of panic and shame started kicking up when Shaw's lips sealed over his, tongue delving past the line of teeth and straight into his mouth. Charles hesitated; he let his hands traipse uncertainly down Shaw's sides until his fingers were digging into his ribs. Shaw teased the roof of his mouth, the underside of his tongue, and coaxed until he was sucking on Charles' lower lip. Another soft nip of his teeth and he pulled back, withdrawing his spent prick and leaving Charles to struggle with not focusing on his leaking hole.

His fingers and leg unfurled, allowing Shaw to fall to the bed next to him. It took Charles a moment longer to open his eyes, but in the meantime he focused on the fingers running languid lines over his abdomen. They traced through the slowly drying come, dragging some of the moisture all the way up to his throat. No matter how well he acted, there would just be somethings that Shaw would find too tempting to refrain from.

“I'm quite impressed,” Shaw murmured against his throat. “You've been very hospitable these past few days, my prince.”

Charles' mind sharpened, defensive, and he had to beat down the instinct to argue. He didn't have a choice in this anymore. _This is your place. This is your place._ He didn't know when he'd picked up the mantra, but he found himself chanting it whenever he considered resisting the cage he was in. Experiment or not, he would never escape.

Charles let out a slow breath and turned his head, his air still coming heavily. “Does that mean you approve?”

Shaw smiled. The expression still twisted Charles' insides and the fingers trailing semen over his collarbone certainly didn't help. “Very much.”

Charles watched him shift and closed his eyes when Shaw's lips pressed to his forehead. If that had been a test, then he had passed it. Still, that didn't erase the feeling that he wasn't done yet. Shaw would be leaving shortly, but he'd already proved the massive amount of damage he could do in a short span of time.

After a few moments of silence fell between them, waiting for the afterglow to drip from their systems, Shaw was ushering him out of bed with him. When Charles moved to head for the bathroom to clean off, however, Shaw snagged his wrist.

“Ah ah,” he condemned, his voice amused. “I leave today.”

Charles' brow creased in confusion. “I'm sorry?”

“Oh, my prince,” Shaw continued, leading him over towards his dresser. Charles had to fight the urge to shiver, his naked skin hardly appreciating the cool air after emerging from warm sheets. “You should know better by now.”

When Shaw placed his hands on the dresser, Charles felt his stomach drop. His mind exploded into questions as it clicked into place—what should he do? Should he try to dissuade him? Could he do it while still behaving as he was supposed to? Would it be audacious? Could he twist it to something fitting?

He didn't come up with an answer before Shaw's thumbs were pressing into him. They hooked on the first ring of slippery muscle and, despite having Shaw's cock there a second ago, Charles still gasped as Shaw pulled. He folded his arms on the top of the dressed and pressed his forehead against them. What remnants of come were left inside of him started to seep down his thighs, wet trails over the skin that he wouldn't be permitted to clear away until Shaw returned. He dug his fingers into his arms.

Shaw spread him as wide and as deep as he could, allowing as much of the evidence of their tryst as possible to mar his skin. When Shaw was satisfied he slid his hands back to knead at the curve of Charles' ass; he sucked at the nape of his neck. Charles tried to keep himself from trembling, but Shaw hardly seemed to notice it. He hovered just far enough away that it could start to dry into Charles' skin.

“Stand by the bed for me,” he said. Charles yelped in surprise when Shaw pinched his naked backside. An affectionate pat followed when he started to move. He swallowed bile with practiced ease and stood facing Shaw as Shaw cleaned himself off and started to dress. 

Charles had to stand and watch as he did it, waiting stoically for the marks on his body to dry to the point they wouldn't rub off when he got dressed. When Shaw was satisfied with his own outfit he walked over, fully clothed, to tease a finger down one of the trails he'd left on Charles' collarbone. He smiled when it didn't come away wet and gave finally gave Charles permission to dress, as if he had any say in when semen would dry.

After he was locked in his chastity belt and blinded again, they ate in the main suite, Shaw on the couch and he on his lap. The liquid diet left much to be desired, but he didn't think he would be off of it any time soon—if ever again. Shaw went from political meetings to campaigns, his entire year spent mostly gone, and Charles was forced into the belt under every circumstance. He didn't think he'd be eating much beyond broth and liquified, mashed up fruits for the rest of his life.

Time dragged until, finally, he found himself standing in Shaw's arms. Charles' own arms rested around Shaw's waist, and he tilted his head against his chest, listening for the steady beat of his heart. He tried to take some comfort in it, in the fact that Shaw _had_ a heart to begin with, but simply having it didn't mean anything for his humanity. 

“I'll be back again in a few weeks,” he said, as though soothing some deep worry of Charles' that he wouldn't come back. If his eyes weren't forcibly closed he might have rolled them, but as it was he just nodded and nuzzled his cheek into the clean fabric.

A few weeks respite from Shaw, from anyone but the servants who had taken to occasional conversation with him, would be wonderful. He put Raven's impending visit out of his mind for the moment and focused on stretching out in bed, sitting in the study—alone. It was enough to make his skin prickle with anticipation.

A kiss pressed to his crown, then his forehead, then his lips before Shaw was stepping away. Charles remained still, pretending to be distraught, until he heard the door fall closed and the sound of boots fading away. Only then did he let himself exhale. He dropped his shoulders and ran his fingers back through his hair, tugging a few strands loose of the mask. It was getting long, he noted, and wondered if that was Shaw's intention.

“Gone?”

He nearly jumped at the sound of Angel's voice—she was certainly the quietest of the three—and spun around. She laughed a little bit to herself and Charles wished he knew what she looked like so he could picture it.

“Well, if he wasn't then you certainly would have alerted him, wouldn't you?” He scolded, walking back over towards the couch. He took a seat and pulled his legs up beside him. He smoothed the robe over his thighs, locking away the feeling of dried come on his skin. This was a good day; he wouldn't let that distract him from it.

“Suppose so,” she agreed, starting to gather up the things from lunch. “Got a message for you.”

“Please tell me it isn't written down,” he said. “That wouldn't be a terribly funny joke.”

She laughed, though was careful to keep her voice quiet. “No, no. Raven just wants you to know that they'll be visiting in a few days, if that's alright with you? Frost is supposed to be making one of her longer trips in four days time.”

Four days. He'd been hoping for more time, but he would take what he could get. If he had learned to compromise with Shaw, then he could learn to do it for his sister. Besides, he wouldn't know how well he had gotten to interacting with others until he was with Raven. True that Angel, Darwin and Sean had started talking to him, but they wouldn't risk touching him more than they'd been permitted, and they didn't compare to Raven.

He nodded. “You can tell her that'll be fine, but to stay safe. I don't want her risking her head any more than she already is by trying to sneak past Lady Frost.”

“You got it.”

With that, Angel headed back towards the bathroom and Charles heard the servant's door click closed a second later. Four days, then, until he would be meeting Erik for the first time. He sank into his corner of the couch and silently hoped that Raven had warned him to be wary of touch.

\----------------------------

Raven had been anxious all day for their meeting, which only served to compound Erik's own nervousness about it. He thought that the entire notion of being nervous was rather pointless, given that he was hardly afraid of Charles and he didn't care about impressing him. He settled for the fact that he was—only a little bit—worried about upsetting Raven. He knew that she had expectations, and, even if he didn't much care for meeting them, he didn't want to utterly devastate her either. He'd surely never hear the end of it.

He'd been in Shaw's suite before, though rarely for anything more than a quick conversation when they were in a rush. It felt like a violation to be sneaking in through the servants' door, but he tried not to think about it. The point of this visit wasn't to sit about dwelling on what he was doing and how it was an utter betrayal of every confidence his King had placed in him. 

“Remember,” she reminded him quietly as they passed through the bathroom. “Don't touch him.”

“ _Why_ would I touch him?” Erik frowned. It was the fifth time he'd asked the question and she still hadn't given him an answer. It was like she expected him to be overtaken with the urge to pounce on her brother. Had she forgotten that he'd seen Charles multiple times before?

Though, when they entered the bedroom, Erik found that he had to remind _himself_ that he'd seen Charles before. Even from across the room there was something distinctly different about him without Shaw there. He didn't know how that was possible, given that all he was doing was sitting on the couch with a book in his lap, staring down at it while he ran his fingers over the pages. There wasn't a doubt in Erik's mind that he couldn't read it, but he didn't bother trying to piece together a reason for Charles' actions.

The robe was the familiar black and cerulean one that, if he had to guess, Charles favored. He lifted his head the second he heard them step into the main suite, turning it expertly in their direction. Erik couldn't put a finger on why he was surprised, given that Charles had months now to adjust to such things. 

Raven didn't waste any time in dashing over to take a seat next to him, though she stopped herself at the last minute. They spoke in hushed tones and she held out a hand, five fingers spread wide, and waited until Charles reached up with his own. Their fingertips pressed together for a second and she took a seat. Erik had the uncomfortable sense that he'd just witnessed something he wasn't supposed to have seen.

“Come on, Erik,” she coaxed. “Don't be shy.”

“I'm not shy.” He scowled at the exact moment that Charles chuckled, a faint smile hinting at the edges of his lips. Erik noticed, not for the first time, that they were strikingly red for a man.

“Of course not,” Charles said. From anyone else, Erik would have assumed he was being mocked. From Charles, he just had the sense that he was being agreed with. Somehow that still seemed to be mocking him.

He crossed the room and moved the seat from the vanity, his eyes briefly passing over the box on its surface. He recognized the handiwork but didn't comment on it, instead placing the seat next to the couch so he could pretend to be paying attention to what was going on. Raven was already chattering away about things; he thought he caught Henry's name, and he was less than willing to pay attention.

Charles sat with impeccable posture, his hands folded neatly on his crossed thighs. He had his head tilted towards Raven, but slightly down, as though the mask was too heavy to bother trying to keep his head up. The smile on his features came and went with her words, but, otherwise, he was rather still. Erik had the distinct impression that he was suspended by invisible strings.

“Erik?”

He blinked, clearing up the fog and looked at Charles properly again as opposed to struggling to find the threads of composure holding him up. The strip of metal across his eyes was aimed towards him but, other than that, there was nothing implying that he could see him. Erik could picture the dazed look on his face, and, although Charles was blind to it, he still felt the back of his neck heat up in embarrassment.

“Yes?”

“Ah,” he smiled. “I thought we'd lost you.”

“Not at all.” He tried to keep his voice polite, but, if Raven's expression was any indication, then it was still too tight to pass. _Too bad,_ he thought spitefully. He didn't owe either of them anything, particularly Charles. Congratulations for him if Shaw had granted him the time to regain some of his grace and poise—clearly he wasn't as tormented as Raven supposed.

“I just wanted to thank you for taking care of Raven for me,” Charles continued, as though he hadn't noticed. Erik was given the distinct impression that he had. “She seems very fond of you, but I know what a handful she must have been.”

“An understatement, surely,” he murmured. He'd expected some kind of reprimand the second it left his mouth, but Charles surprised him by laughing. It was quiet but sincere, he felt. And brittle. He knew without asking that Charles hadn't laughed in months.

“Hey!” Raven scolded, not about to be kept from her own defense. “I wasn't _that_ bad.”

“You certainly could have fooled me,” Erik replied, quirking a brow and trying to shake off the—likely inaccurate—note of Charles' fragility. He was behaving just _fine_. 

“Like that would have been such a challenge!”

Erik rolled his eyes as she leaned forward, likely to play at getting at him, but it didn't stop him from noticing what followed. Raven had hardly touched Charles before he was flinching back, withdrawing sharply into the corner of the couch as though his sister had held a flame to his face. Despite the fact Charles didn't simper or cringe, and the flinch itself certainly could have been considered slight, Erik felt something sharp drag through his chest. Once again he'd trespassed on something, something that was now indelible in his mind.

Raven hardly seemed to notice, likely just thinking of it as Charles trying to get out of her way, but she pulled back anyway. Her apology was superficial compared to the stretch of damage she seemed to have done. Charles shook his head, hiding the subtle tremors in his hands by curling his fingers into his robe.

“It's alright.” Charles flashed her a smile.

Erik drew up to Charles' eyes again, but this time the mask was a slap in the face. He was used to reading people by the subtle twitches about their expressions, albeit subconsciously, but Charles' twitches weren't there. It was like someone had slashed a great hole right through him, leaving only the glint of metal to echo what might have been.

Suddenly he was nervous all over again, and the best he could think to do was mentally scold himself while pointedly looking across the room. As if that would make any difference to a blind man.

“So, you're friends with Angel?” Charles prompted, his voice convincingly steady. Erik nodded without thinking about it; at least until Raven hissed at him. He started and squeezed his eyes closed. _Idiot._

“Yes,” he said, perhaps a bit hurriedly. It wouldn't do anything to hide the brief silence, of course. Charles was blind, it wasn't like his ears functioned slower than everyone else. “I'm familiar with all those who work in the castle.”

“Well, the guards naturally,” Charles replied. “I'm surprised you'd take the time to be so familiar with those who work in the kitchen. Not that I'm trying to speak poorly of your character.”

“Of course not,” he agreed. Being agreeable was the closest he would come to an apology for his previous stupidity.

A moment of pause.

“Do I make you uncomfortable, Erik?”

He twisted his head to look at him again, finding all the previous control had returned. Once again Charles was sitting up straight, hands resting neatly in his lap, as though nothing had happened to throw him off in the first place. Erik frowned.

“Not at all.”

“Ah.” Charles nodded, and it wasn't until he started speaking again that Erik took note of the slight lift that had returned to the edge of his mouth. “I was just curious because you weren't looking at me.”

“What?”

His eyes flicked to Raven, but she just smirked and raised her eyebrows, as though trying to ask him if he weren't impressed.

“You were looking across the room. Not that I mind, it's quite alright, but I was concerned that I might have been making you uncomfortable.”

It wasn't as though it was a difficult thing to figure out—as a soldier Erik had learned how to use senses other than his eyes to reveal things about his enemy's positions—but he was impressed that Charles had done it. He'd managed to prove that he wasn't quite so helpless as Raven seemed to have painted him— _again_.

“No,” he replied sincerely. “You don't make me uncomfortable.”

Charles smiled then, and, although it was often far easier to gauge a smile by whether or not it reached the person's eyes, Erik knew it was genuine. It was strange, really, how he felt so sure and uncertain of him at the same time. It was like Charles was something he could see but couldn't reach; something he knew but never understood.

“I'm glad.”

There was a flicker of silence, branding in its potential awkwardness, and so he cleared his throat instead. “What were you reading?”

An indignant, choked sound came from Raven and he flinched. _Why. Did this. Keep. Happening._ How hard could it possibly be to remember that Charles couldn't see? His brain staunchly refused to make the connection, as though it were some great trauma that it couldn't reconcile. It wasn't even his god forsaken trauma!

“Huh,” Charles half-huffed. He picked up the book in his hand, closed around one finger, and turned it in front of his face. If, for whatever reason, someone were stupid enough not to notice the blindfold, they might have thought he could actually see. “You know, I really haven't the slightest.”

“God, you're a graceless _twit_ ,” Raven hissed. Erik narrowed his eyes, but couldn't completely ignore the weight sinking through his stomach. Charles chuckled again, and each sound of amusement seemed a bit sturdier than the last. He reached out to pat her on the leg, though Erik rather thought he might have been aiming for where her hands were folded.

“It's alright, Raven, I'm sure he doesn't mean any harm.”

“That would be a first.”

The words hit Erik like a rock launched from a catapult. 

“Raven!”

“No, I mean it,” she insisted. Erik could feel her glaring at him even after he looked away, scowling at the stone floors around them. “He didn't even want to come here. He doesn't care about anything that would prove his precious King wrong—”

“Enough!”

Charles' sharp tone demanded even Erik's attention. The book and his hands had fallen back to his lap; his trembling fingers were fumbling at the edges of the pages. They all lapsed into silence, and Erik found that he couldn't tear his eyes away from Charles' hands. 

There wasn't any point in arguing with her or trying to pretend that it wasn't true. Even if he convinced them both, there would still be obligations afterward to back up the lie. He'd convince himself right into a hole, having to constantly act like something he wasn't, and he wasn't enough of an actor to want to keep up with some facade. Besides, he didn't think that any of them would benefit from it.

That didn't, however, mean that he'd intended to offend.

He pressed his lips together, then relaxed them with a nearly silent sigh. “May I see the book?”

Charles turned in his direction with the quickness of a startled animal, as though he'd forgotten anyone had been in the room with him. He nodded a second later and held out the book. His general direction was accurate, but just enough off that Erik had to move forward in his seat. 

When his fingers brushed against the back of Charles' hand he half-jerked, as if he'd been burned, and causing Erik to recoil his fingers. A split second passed before Charles' hand followed the path his fingers withdrew from, causing Erik's fingers to graze against his knuckles. Erik watched his face as he carefully curled his fingers around Charles' hand, keeping it steady to take the book with the other. It looked like it was taking the prince concerted effort not to draw away from their contact.

Erik sucked in a deep breath and dropped his attention to the book, turning it over in his hands—Charles had been holding it right side up, surprisingly—he ran his thumb over the title. He'd managed to slip his finger into the place where Charles had been not-reading and flipped it open. 

“ _Guigemar_.” He didn't need to turn back to find the title; the collection was one that he'd read several times on his own. “Marie de France.”

When he looked up, Charles was methodically smoothing his hands over his thigh and Raven seemed to be watching with the same interest as Erik. It was hard to tell if the trembling had gone down at all. When he met Raven's eyes a second later they were concerned and faintly apologetic, though Erik couldn't be sure if that was for him or for the toll their miniature fight had taken on her brother. He didn't much care, either. An apology was an apology, so he gave a stiff nod.

“I've never read it,” Charles' voice sounded a little sharp. Defensive, if Erik had to guess. 

Erik opened his mouth to say that he should some day, but stopped himself and looked back at the words. “It's about a man who is injured on the hunt and cursed by a doe. He's finds his way to the shore of a queen who's been locked away and she nurses him back to health.”

“Cursed?”

Erik still nodded, but he remembered to hum in assent, “Mm, so that the fatal wound could only be healed by a woman who loved him.”

It was little more than a sorry fragment of the overall story, but he found himself holding some hope that maybe Charles would read it some day. Shaw had numerous books in his study, many of which Erik doubted he'd read in years, and there didn't seem to be anything to gain in not letting Charles read. 

“That sounds like something I'd ask you to read me when we were children,” Raven said, a smile on her voice. One formed on Charles' face as well and he finally lifted his head to look towards her. The shaking in his hands had stopped, or at least slowed to such a speed that Erik didn't see it.

“Yes, it does.” Erik found himself straightening when Charles turned to look towards him. “Raven loved romantic stories.”

“I still love them,” she argued. “I just don't get to read them so often.”

“I could show you to the library,” Erik suggested. “I didn't know you had any interest in reading.”

“I'd like that.” The knot in his chest finally loosened a little bit. “Charles used to read to me all the time in Westchester.” Then, like a muted epiphany: “Erik reads a lot.”

Charles seemed to pique a bit, some of the color about him renewing. “Do you?”

“I wouldn't say _a lot_.”

“I practically always see you with a book in your hand,” Raven said. The look that followed was much like the one she'd had in Henry's shop, when they'd first been discussing meeting Charles. Erik sensed dubious motives.

“Yes,” he started, uncertain. He managed to tear his eyes from Raven to Charles, who was facing him with his head angled slightly down. It always seemed to be angled slightly down, but the meaning behind it was caught in flux. Where it seemed like a burden earlier, now it just seemed to be a natural development of his posture. “I try to read in my spare time.”

“I was much the same,” Charles replied. “I'd read almost anything I could get my hands on. Is the library here impressive?”

“Quite. The King has books and manuscripts from all reaches of the country and some from beyond.”

When Charles pressed, Erik divulged a frew that he had read. It wasn't fair to say that he'd made his way through most of Shaw's collection, but he'd been steadily working through it ever since he'd learned to read. The lessons had been frustrating to begin with, but, after he mastered it, he found it impossible to stop. There weren't a great many stories out there, but there were old strategies and histories that he had occupied himself with for months. As they talked, he found that some of his and Charles' previous literary excursions overlapped.

“So, you learned to read after you came here?” Charles asked.

“Yes. The Queen taught me,” he explained. 

“Ah, I suppose you would have been here when she was still alive.”

“She was with the King for most of my time here,” Erik agreed. “She overtook my education, and he my training for combat.”

It was more than he'd revealed about himself to anyone and an immediate regret hit. But neither Charles nor Raven treated the information as though it were any great triumph to have heard it. In the face of such placid reactions, his nervousness seemed unnecessary. What could they possibly do with such superficial knowledge of him?

“You speak of her fondly,” Charles said.

There it was; Erik's blood turned to mud through his veins at the observation. Yes, he'd been close with the Lady before—but it wasn't anything beyond what had once been feelings for his own mother. He smoothed his fingers over his forehead, certain that Charles' acute hearing would pick up the thud of each heartbeat.

“She was my Queen,” he said simply, hiding his desperation for the subject to change. He'd been a fool after all. Certainly Charles would mention it to Shaw, why shouldn't he? There wasn't a doubt that he was heedless of the way his actions affected other people— _No._ Erik swallowed, focusing out the window he'd been careful not to sit in front of. _He couldn't—the King would be furious with him just as well if he knew we'd spoken._

 _It isn't **his** skin Shaw will tear_ , another voice spitefully pointed out. 

But Charles just had time to nod with a thoughtful hum before Angel was stepping into the room.

“Oh, you're still here.” She was holding a tray arranged with a bowl and goblet. Her attention turned towards Charles after her eyes scanned over Erik and Raven. “It's time for lunch, so—”

“I think this has been a pleasant visit,” Charles interjected, almost in a hurry. Erik frowned, but being silent meant that Charles wouldn't be able to pick up on his perplexity.

“I'm sure we could stay for a while longer,” Raven pressed. “Or just get something from the kitchens and come back.”

Erik noticed the subtle way Charles' fingers twitched against his thigh and realized that he'd hardly moved during the duration of their visit. He hadn't even shifted his posture, save maybe to keep his leg from tingling. 

“That's alright. I'm sure you both have other things you'd like to do today.”

“Of course not!” A subtle flinch—because of her volume or what she'd said?—from Charles. “Not at all, we'd love come back.”

“Raven—”

“ _Really._ ” Fingers wrapped in the expensive fabric; his head dipped slightly lower, like a weight was pressing on his neck.

“You don't have to...” Was that a tremor to his voice? His hands?

“We _want_ to—”

“Thank you for seeing us,” Erik said, stopping her. His choice of words had certainly not been the best, but he had the feeling that, had Charles' eyes been able, they would have expressed surprise and—he hoped—some gratitude rather than resentment. Erik watched him, the line of his shoulders seemed to sink. Not much, but enough.

“Of course,” Charles breathed. Erik stood up, glancing towards Angel who was watching him with minor confusion on her face. “It was nice to finally meet you, Erik.”

He didn't say anything as he moved towards the door, feeling swell of tension between his shoulder blades that he couldn't ignore. Surely Raven, as his sister, would have realized the effect her words were having? Even her insistence and need for her brother had to know some boundaries.

When he reached the door to the bathroom he turned to find their fingertips touching again. She murmured something to Charles before heading in his direction, her eyes flashed annoyance. Behind her, Angel set down the tray on the table and moved the chair that Erik had been sitting in even closer. He noticed the gloves on her hands only when she reached them up to touch Charles' jaw, giving him a point on which to focus as she brought a spoon to his lips.

Charles took it, but not without some reluctance, Erik thought.

Raven's hand clamped on his arm, dragging him towards the door. He could have yanked it from her easily, but he refrained until they were well beyond the kitchens, in the empty hallway of the second floor.

She spun on him instantly. “How _dare_ you decide something like that?”

“I'm strongly beginning to think your brother sees clearer than you if you are truly so blind that you couldn't tell he didn't want us there!”

“You don't even know him!”

“I don't have to!” He snapped, taking a step closer. To her credit, she held her ground. “The way his hands moved, the sound of his voice—it was obvious!”

“He didn't say we couldn't come back!”

“Of course not. Why would he want to disappoint his precious little sister by telling her he didn't want her around? He was being polite for _your_ sake—”

Something shifted abruptly in her features at the words: her eyebrows lost their sharp angles, her mouth relaxed. He'd thought he'd done something wrong until he caught her eyes, soft and knowing and— _Stupid. Stupid!_

“ _No,_ ” he growled, spinning to stalk towards his room. She picked up after him immediately.

“You saw it too, Erik. I know that you did! You can't just ignore it—”

 _Watch me,_ he thought spitefully just before slamming the door to his suite.

\----------------------------

“He's just being childish!”

She was currently taking out her frustration on a mix of sweet-smelling herbs in the mortar. It seemed to help, pretending that they were symbolic of Erik's brain. How much simpler this all would have been if she could just grind his notions of Shaw into nothing! Too easy, though, God knew he couldn't just open his eyes and see the reality right in front of him.

“That's—ah,” Henry coughed. “Can I just—”

“ _What?_ ”

Henry startled a little, probably from the harshness of her voice, and she felt simultaneously pleased and sorry. She pushed the small bowl across the table towards him. It wasn't much in the way of apologies, but her mind rejected the word 'sorry' right now. Not the most fair decision, she knew, but one that she'd made anyway.

She twirled the clunky pestle between her fingers and made it a point to look off to the side. “Do—” But she hadn't even finished the question before Henry was pushing a new bowl in front of her. Although she initially looked at him with some surprise, it softened at the look on his face: Henry had the most understanding face she'd ever seen. Maybe even more so than Charles'. 

“Thanks.”

“Don't mention it,” he said, shrugging. She watched him for a second as he started transferring her previous work into a labeled glass bottle. When her attention went back to the new mixture she found that the movements of her hand and wrist were a bit calmer. 

A few moments of steady silence passed. 

“So...he's still not talking to you?”

“It's been four days!”

Erik hadn't just been ignoring her, it was more than that: he'd turned avoiding her into an art form. Sometimes she could get a grunt or a glare out of him, but seldom more than that. He acted like he was busy when he wasn't; acted like he constantly had to be somewhere when he didn't. He never told her where he was going and, despite the fact she'd angered him, she didn't think he would have run off to do something dangerous without telling her. Shaw wasn't even in the castle—what could he _possibly_ have to do?

“He probably just needs time to straighten things out,” Henry suggested. “You did just kind of try springing it on him. Which I told you was a bad idea.”

“He was _wrong_ ,” she insisted. “He should be man enough to admit it.”

“Maybe it isn't that simple.”

“It _is_ that simple.”

She didn't want to take all of her frustration out on Henry, but he was too quick to defend Erik—Shaw—this _place_. It was absurd how he could think any of them deserved it. He was too smart to truly be so oblivious to what was happening around him.

“Well, you weren't just proving _him_ wrong; you were trying to prove that you were right about Shaw,” Henry continued.

“They're the same thing.”

“Not really.” She opened her mouth but suddenly Henry's hand settled on the table in her sight, a mute demand for her attention. “Raven.”

She followed his fingertips up to his wrist, over his arm, and found him fixing her with a serious expression.

“It's really _not_ the same.”

\----------------------------

Erik did his best to smear away the droplets of moisture clinging to his face, but, given that he was still in the tub, that was no easy task. When he was satisfied that they wouldn't bother his eyes, he leaned against the curve of metal and spread his arms across the curved edge. He was still being careful—some pain lingered in his backside—but it wasn't as unbearable as it had been the first few days. He was comfortable and unflinching in a matter of seconds.

Of course, that didn't help his real problem any.

The second he let his eyes drift closed his memories of meeting Charles were replaying across them. He wouldn't venture to say they were vivid, but they were _there_ and that was enough. Too much, even.

All of his slip-ups aside, he found it impossible for his mind not to wander over it with scrutiny. It clearly wanted to find something that he didn't, and despite his attempts at shutting it down it would always discover something. A new shift of his fingers or twitch of his features. He had to have been making most of them up, he knew, because he spent very little time looking directly at Charles. For all his mind wanted to see, his eyes wanted to ignore.

He'd never felt himself so coiled, his mind twisted like a rope strung too tight through memories he hadn't intended to keep any grip on. Some part of him knew what it was looking for, but the rest refused it. If it was anything to prove that Raven was even the slightest bit right then he didn't want to see it. Meeting or not, it still wasn't his place to get involved.

 _So, then, do you visit him again or not?_

That was the question hanging over him now, the one that he'd been purposefully avoiding Raven for. He didn't have any interest in continuing these meetings, but she would. She would, and, if he refused, then she would certainly do something stupid without telling him about her plans. If Charles had a mind for escape in his incapacitated state, then so would Raven. Every resource she had available to her would be used, and it would _still_ fail in the end. He would be whipped for both of them, or they would both be killed for treason. Even if he played no part in it, he knew how the King operated—all or nothing.

So then, it was certainly to keep his own hide safe—and to a lesser extent, the hide of his wife—that he would continue to see Charles at Raven's behest (and she would certainly behest once he let up his wall of excommunication). Not because of Charles' subtle twitches, or the curious nature to his composure, or his profound interest in the written word. 

_So you can damn well shut up now_ , he said to himself—his wandering thoughts—before sinking beneath the reflective surface of his bathwater.

\----------------------------

In the past week since Shaw's departure, he'd discovered that there was something wonderful to having the bed to himself. It was larger than his one in Westchester had been, and though he had no cause to stretch out entirely across it, he did anyway. Immediately after settling himself under the covers he would stretch out across the space, head planted between the pillows, and reach his fingers and toes towards their respective corners. 

There was a different air to it when Shaw had gone away to war, one that he appreciated far more even if he couldn't discover why. He was still covered in flakes of semen, still confined to his cages, still fed under threat—there really was very little difference. Still, there was a profound shift that he struggled to work his way through.

 _Not thinking about escape,_ he considered after his initial stretch. He rolled onto his side, curled into his pillow, and tucked one hand underneath. _There's no plan to hash over, no details to work out at the last minute, no considerations for failure. Just pleasant solitude. Time to think._

Though he knew, deep down, that the solitude was only so bearable because of the people who drifted through it. The ones who fed him had tentatively started talking to him more frequently, Sean and Darwin picking up on Angel's initial, brave cue. He'd started to occupy himself with memorizing the way that they moved into the room, guessing who each one was before they stepped into the main suite at meal time. Sean had said just that afternoon how impressed he was. Charles had found it impossible not to smile, not to feel somewhat pleased with himself for the first time in months.

Shaw certainly would have driven him mad by now if the void around him continued the way that it had before Raven's first visit. No one but Shaw speaking to him, touching him. It chilled him, something deep beneath the skin, to think of being without human contact for the rest of his life. He'd already known the effects once from speaking with Raven after so many months of it. He had no desire to go back to that place.

That reality did not, however, make her visits suddenly easier on him. A difference existed between the small group in charge of his care and his little sister, one that he couldn't ignore. But what then to make of Erik, now that they'd finally met?

He was Shaw's second in command and would, without a doubt, choose his King over either of them; but he was also Raven's husband—more by law than practice—and shouldn't Charles then care what he would think? At least more than the ones who tended to him, who he liked but were removed from the spectrum in which he needed to feel shame around them. He felt shame constantly anyway; it had become his companion in the past few months, but he would give his life before he let Raven know why. The ones who worked for Shaw, though, he was sure they already knew everything. Who else would he brag to?

Erik's fingers against his hand had, at first, caused no different reproach than the ones he felt when Raven tried to touch him. Still, it was questionable that it didn't just have to do with the fact that Erik hadn't been wearing gloves, he supposed. Skin-to-skin contact was enough to make him hesitate any time it happened. He'd managed to keep himself calm and pass over the book without panicking, though. It might have meant something; it might have meant nothing at all.

He tucked himself tighter against the pillow with a yawn and tried to imagine what the moon looked like instead. The past few days spent thinking about his conflicts hadn't yielded any new answers, so there was no point in assuming that losing sleep over it would help either. Perhaps, like most other things in Lourdes, it would just take time.


	12. Chapter 12

As snow continued to accumulate on the ground it became less practical to walk into town. Raven didn't have a horse of her own, although Erik considered it, which meant that her visits with Henry became fewer as they had to make the trip using Tristan. What had been a pleasant walking distance away then was now a cold horse-ride. Though, if Erik were honest, having Raven tucked against his chest made it far more bearable than he would ever tell her. She bundled his cloak into her hands after they'd mounted and held it wrapped around herself, cocooning their warmth between them.

It also, unfortunately, made more sense for him to stay in town for her visits than to trek back to the castle just to return in an hour or so. The work and time of tending to Tristan alone would have made it foolish. 

But that did not, however, limit him to Henry's shop. There wasn't much in the way of shopping when the cold months settled in, but moving around was better than shifting his weight while he watched Henry fumble through a visit. To his credit, Henry seemed to have found a little more grace around Raven, if Erik could claim to pay attention to such things. The shop itself seemed to open up to her now, and heaved sighed as she left it.

“How was your visit?” He helped her up onto Tristan, watching as she bundled her cloak tighter around her until it was as tucked as it could ever be. 

“Nice,” she smiled. “What were you doing?”

“I went to see a friend.”

He unwrapped Tristan's reins and led him away from the post. Now that he'd started moving in it, the chill wasn't quite so bad. His limbs stayed warmer with movement anyway.

“Oh? What friend is this?”

“You'll be meeting him.”

“When?” She sounded skeptical, but he wasn't that surprised. He didn't know if they would have started properly talking again if he hadn't offered to take her into town as a sort-of apology for his previous silent treatment. He didn't even realize he was apologizing, actually, until she'd pointed it out.

“When we get there,” he said, turning to look at her over his shoulder. 

Raven sat with regal grace on the saddle, and the fact that she held her chin up and had to look slightly down at him only added to the quality. Every day that tiny seed of strength he'd seen in her had started to grow; it was hard not to find a queen in her.

But then the edge of her lip quirked and excitement flashed in her eyes. Just like that she was a little girl again, and that familiar need to protect and please her surged.

“Really?”

“Now, why would I lie to you when I've only just apologized?”

She laughed. “Well, good point. To prove you're a sod?”

“Mm, I could do that without tricking you, I think.”

John's shop was smaller than some other metalworkers in town; Erik first met him because he'd been certain it was a violation. When he was given the documents proving that it was on the smaller end of feasible for a metalwork shop, he could do little but apologize and be on his way. John, however, hadn't been to keen to that, after being put through the trial of having to find documents he should have kept on hand anyway. Erik purchased something just to get him to shut up in the end; it was still a mystery how that developed into a friendship.

Raven noticed the sign before they got close. “A metalworker?”

“Christmas is only a short while away. I thought this might be a nice place to see if I couldn't find a gift you'd like.”

Raven hadn't seemed all that interested in anything during those days she wandered through the town. She would investigate things, but little else. That left him very few leads on what to get her for a gift, but the fact that he did want to get her _something_ hung on the back of his mind. So, he settled for aiming in a different direction. Something less shiny and, perhaps, more practical.

The inside of the shop was immediately warm on his wind-chilled skin. Next to him Raven shuddered, the tremors tangible under where his hand set on her shoulder to guide her. John had already closed for the night, but that only meant that they were expected. The grin on his face when he stepped out from the back was the sort that made law officials nervous. Erik knew because it used to have the same effect on him.

“There she is, the little princess,” he said. He took her hand, politely pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “A pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Likewise, I'm sure.” It was clear she wasn't sure what to do with John, which really just made it that much more amusing for Erik. 

“John's the best metalworker in Lourdes,” he explained. His hand fell from her shoulder and he stepped back, the heat already threatening to be overbearing. “I'm sure he could make you anything.”

The second the words left his mouth he regretted them, but there wasn't a moment to spare before she was looking at John with slightly wide eyes. “Anything?”

“Almost anything,” John corrected. “If I can make a blindfold that accurate for the King, I'm certain I can do just about anything you'd need.”

It was John's arrogance and pride in his work, not his intention to hurt, that made the room suddenly take a drastic chill that rivaled the one outside. He knew, of course, about Charles' predicament, and it didn't take a genius to figure out that Raven was his younger sister. But John knew even less than he or Raven did about the situation, because Erik certainly didn't see fit to tell him anything he wasn't certain of himself.

“You...” Raven had only barely recovered her voice. “You made that?”

John knew, blessedly, when he had stepped in something he shouldn't have. Erik met his eyes for a second as he floundered, but he found his footing again. “Yes, well, I need to make a living as much as anyone else, my dear. And the King's the sort to call treason even for a refused commission.”

Erik felt like he'd unintentionally set up some sort of test for Raven's growing strength. Although he knew that John had made the blindfold—that had been discussed some months ago—he had never suspected that it would be mentioned. Perhaps he had given John more credit than he'd earned. He'd never been all that spectacular at keeping his mouth shut.

Raven seemed lost for several minutes, and Erik was just about to speak up, to snap her from it, when she did it herself. Erik almost wished she hadn't. “So you'd...know how to make a key for it?”

“Raven,” Erik growled.

“You didn't put any limits on the gift!” She glared, a fire in her eyes that he hadn't seen before. “Besides, I've only asked him.” She looked back to John. “Can you?”

He smiled, but it was somber. “I'm a wonder with making keys to things, but...sorry, milady, it's been too many months. I can't remember the mold anymore.”

Erik half expected Raven to call him a liar, cry conspiracy the way she always had, but she didn't. Despite this flame he'd coaxed in her, he no longer knew what to expect from it, or from her. But that was the nature of a flame, wasn't it? Even contained in a fireplace, there was no telling how it would move. 

He relaxed when she nodded instead, but a weight was on her shoulders now. 

“That's alright.” Erik knew that it wasn't, but that hardly mattered. A few seconds passed where she just looked at the ground, considering, and then her eyes found John again. “Could I see some of your work, then? Get an idea for something?”

John nodded, still off kilter and struggling for a recovery. “Of course. This way.”

Raven didn't so much as glance at him while she followed after John, likely to look at some of his more artisan work. He didn't care what she got, really, so long as it didn't have anything to do with her brother. John would certainly be able to come up with whatever it was she decided on.

_Except what she actually wants._

\----------------------------

Perhaps one of Angel's most defining attributes was her willingness to talk to him. At first she'd been hesitant, but gradually all three of them had worked up to feeling comfortable with holding conversations around him. It was more difficult to get them to do it when Shaw was in the castle, naturally, but he'd accepted that as being unavoidable from day one. If he had the option of avoiding Shaw, he'd certainly do it.

“What do you know of Erik?” He politely swallowed the broth she'd given him before asking. Angel didn't hesitate for a moment; he could hear her carefully scraping the spoon against the bowl to collect what meager amount was left.

“Well, that depends on what you want to know.”

“Is he a good man?” He tilted his head slightly away when she touched his chin, the signal that he should open his mouth. Angel sighed. “Raven leads me to think so, but I can't be certain. She might be lying to keep me from worrying.”

“Open, then I'll answer,” she ordered. Charles obligated, closing his lips around the spoon and carefully extracting the broth off. He tried to make as little of a mess as possible when he ate. “Yes, he's good to your sister. He takes her into town almost every day. I imagine she doesn't want for anything.”

He nodded. Angel was too brash, and too comfortable with him, he thought, to lie about something like that. She might not tell him if there was something drastically wrong, but if she didn't like Erik then Charles didn't peg her the sort to pass up an opportunity to complain. He took another spoonful and listened—the noise was slightly softer and distant, meaning that she'd tilted the bowl towards her. Two more spoonfuls at most, then.

“Do you know anything more about him? Where he came from?” Angel sounded too young to have been around when Erik first arrived at the castle, but she worked with the efficiency of someone who knew what they were doing and what their king was like. A safe enough bet to get information, he thought.

“He's from the North, I think.”

“Yes, Shaw told me as much,” he said. He opened his mouth at the touch of her gloved fingers this time.

“I think Lady Frost mentioned he'd been here over a decade, if I remember right,” she continued. “But that was a few years ago now.”

“He was already here when you got here, then?”

He heard something on her jingle, softly, and it was a sound he'd long since started associating with her nodding her head. “Yes. For several years already, I'd think.”

Erik sounded like he was older—certainly too old for Raven—but, even then, part of that could just as easily have been from the gravel of his voice. If he had to guess, Erik sounded just about his age, which certainly placed him younger than Shaw. The twisted revulsion in his stomach at the idea of Raven being with someone Shaw's age loosened.

“So, what's his history with Shaw, then?” Just asking outright might not get him an answer as specific as he'd like, but being too direct meant that he might not get an answer at all.

Angel laughed a little bit, setting the bowl back down. “You'd probably know more than I do. You should try asking Darwin when he comes up to talk to you. He's been here the longest. Well, aside from Frost, but you shouldn't talk to her at all if you can help it.”

Charles had been here for months and he'd never met the—apparently infamous—Lady Frost. Raven had mentioned her in passing, he was sure, and he was a bit surprised that Shaw hadn't dictated his care to her. From what he could tell, she was the one in charge of the goings on around the castle. But he wasn't going to complain. Talking with her likely would have gotten him in trouble or nowhere it at all—neither of which were outcomes he was looking for.

He smiled. “I'll keep that in mind, Angel. Thank you.”

She replied in kind as she gathered up the things from his lunch and left. None of them ever lingered, but he'd stopped being offended when he realized Lady Frost must have kept them on a tight schedule. 

He passed the time by stepping back into the study and plucking a new book from its perch. When that proved boring he moved onto the desk, smoothing his fingers over the map. He didn't think it had changed since the last time he'd seen it, but he couldn't be sure. It smelled of fresh ink shortly after Shaw had left, but it had long since dried now and he wasn't worried about getting any on his fingers. He didn't want to think of the crazy assumptions Shaw would come up with if he discovered something like that.

Still, he pushed aside Shaw's paranoia and tried to focus. There were some areas where the layers of ink from Shaw's tracing made imprints in the map. He was able to outline, vaguely, what he believed to be Westchester. There was nothing distinguishing about it, really, because all the names were crossed out in virtually the same fashion. But he knew where it would lie on the map, and that was enough. He didn't want to think about it's eradicated name any more than he had to.

He hadn't realized until meeting Erik how clever and careful Shaw had been about keeping him in the dark as figuratively as he did literally. From what he could tell, between Raven, Erik, and his brief conversation with Angel, Shaw's second-in-command was certainly someone important to him. He would have figured Shaw the type to gloat about having someone as feared as Erik in his guard, but he didn't. He didn't talk about anyone more than he had to.

There was no way this level of paranoia was inherent; but, just as such, there way no way to really figure out what could have caused it. Shaw would certainly never tell him, and the people who _could_ shed some light on it weren't going to either. He wasn't in any position to solve any mysteries.

That didn't, of course, stop the question, and, as childish as it was, he could blame Shaw for that. Perhaps not for his intrigue, but for the simple fact that he had nothing else to do but wonder to distract himself.

Standing from the desk, he moved to navigate around the study, functioning on instinct and the motivation of an unclear memory. His fingers grazed over his prize after a few minutes, the twisting arch of metal under his fingers turned familiar. The frame slowly formed in his mind, some of the details muddled as went, before his fingertips touched the rough strokes of a painting. He wanted to believe, in some silly part of his mind, that he'd be able to figure out what it was by the strokes alone, but as he went on he realized that was increasingly unlikely to happen.

They were a mess of ridges and scrapes, like scratched stone but so distinctly different in their delicacy. He'd never bothered trying to memorize the painting, given that it certainly wouldn't help him with navigating the room, but, now that he had the time for details, it was nagging at him. He couldn't even remember if it had been a landscape or a portrait.

“Thought I'd find you in here.”

Charles jumped out of his skin at Darwin's voice, spinning around with his heart hammering. For a moment his ears twisted it—the words—the gentle tone—into Shaw's voice. But it wasn't, no. Even from across the room there was the faint smell of smoke and the kitchens.

“Sorry, sorry. I thought you would've heard me. You usually—”

“It's alright,” Charles replied, pressing his hand to where his heart was leaping around in his chest. It beat against his palm, almost restlessly so. “You're right. I was just distracted.”

There was a long pause, growing in tension, before Darwin spoke up again. “Angel said you might want to see me, so I brought you some water and the chance to talk.”

So, he hadn't been completely out of it to think that it was too early for dinner, then. He nodded and gestured in what he was fairly certain was the direction of the couch. “Please.”

He'd been nothing short of required to take his meals in the main suite, so Darwin's hesitation to sit down in the study wasn't surprising. Charles had to pat the space beside him before he felt it shift with the new weight. He could tell, even than, that Darwin was hesitant about it. The way the cushion's bent, slow as though he were going to set off a trap, the fact he was sitting on the very edge—he expected to have to leap up at any moment. 

“So, why am I sneaking away from the kitchens?”

Charles was encouraged to take a sip of the water brought along before he answered; Darwin's gloved fingers pressed against his jaw. They smelled even more of smoke than Darwin himself, though that could have been because they were closer.

“I was wondering what you knew about Erik's history here,” he tried. “Angel said you'd been here longer than she had, and you might know a few things.”

He listened to the minute shift of Darwin's clothes, but he couldn't tell if he was relaxing or tensing up. It was a struggle not to appear too eager, tilting his head slightly away and down as he usually did. He hated how subservient the gesture made him, but there seemed little point in pretending he could see.

“I was about fifteen when Erik showed up,” Darwin agreed. The consideration was thick in his voice, pulling up a memory he hadn't had much cause for. “Don't remember much—I was mostly a stable-hand and errand boy back then. I think the King kept him pretty shut-up anyway.”

“Erik said Shaw was the one who trained him?”

“Yeah. Now that you mention it, I think Lady Frost used to take care of his injuries. She still tends to people as the head medic if they need her care.”

Well, that didn't really yield much, unfortunately. But the lack of direct information made it impossible to try to come up with a direct question either. His ideas were all floating on the periphery of rumors and his own suspicions.

“And I don't suppose Lady Frost would be particularly open to questions.” It was hard to keep the defeat out of his voice. Darwin laughed, the sound caught between amused and anxious.

“Yeah, I don't think so.”

There was no sense in being disappointed over an answer he had anticipated, but that didn't mean he wasn't sour to have his inquiry suddenly reach a dead end. What other information Darwin knew about Erik was superficial and getting him to discuss Shaw was even more pointless. Darwin sat dwelling on his answers before deciding he didn't know anything or he wasn't sure. It seemed easier, then, to just dismiss him back to the kitchens with Charles' thanks and the sincere hope that he wouldn't get into much trouble with Lady Frost for his absence. 

He spent the space of time between then and dinner running over what little he knew, what more he could possibly ask of Darwin, and how utterly abysmal his luck was.

\----------------------------

Sounds of any variety, when he wasn't expecting them, were enough to startle him; this included the sound of the servant's entrance scraping open when he hadn't anticipated it. A messenger had arrived just a few days prior with news that Shaw would be returning to Lourdes soon, and that put him well enough on edge without someone—Angel, by the light steps—helping it along. He tried to ignore the flustered aggravation running through his chest as he shifted on the couch, leaning over to pick up the book that he'd dropped.

“Early, isn't it? You startled me.” His fingers found the book, lifting it off the ground just enough that it slipped from his fingers a second later.

“Are you scolding me, prince?”

The only females he'd heard in the past weeks were Angel and Raven, and the icy wind that slid, unwelcome, down his spine certainly belonged to neither of them. He swallowed, and, even through the literal cool of her voice, it took him a moment longer before he dare try putting a name to it.

“Lady Frost, I presume?”

Only with Shaw had Charles ever felt the need to stay perfectly still, like he was prey just one wrong breath away from being snapped up in powerful jaws. However, with Shaw that was more literal. Lady Frost couldn't lay a hand to him and get away with it. 

Somehow, that thought still wasn't so comforting.

He listened to her move around the room, and, despite her proximity, he didn't move. Not until he felt her hand—glove clad, just like all the other servants who tended to him—brush against his fingers. He withdrew, his ears tuned to her every sound as she picked up the book, smoothed out the pages, and set it on the table in front of him. “The very same.”

Charles sat back in his seat and smoothed his hands over his thighs. It took some effort not to snatch the book off the table, namely the effort of diffusing why he would want to do such a thing and realizing that the only motive was childishness. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure of finally meeting you?”

As far as he knew, Frost was just as banned from speaking to him as anyone else, and he'd always thought that she might reinforce the rule. The fact that he'd been wrong was more disconcerting than reassuring.

“My staff has been lively with conversation concerning you,” she explained, and Charles could hear the overly-sweet smile form the words. “I was just curious what all the chattering was about.”

Charles wasn't sure if he was more the more accurate metaphor: he was surrounded by a pool of acid or had stumbled upon the female wolf. “I suppose I'm good company.”

“Chatty company, for someone who's supposed to be holding his tongue.”

_They will suffer for speaking to you._

His throat ran dry, mind scrambling for words even as he forced himself to maintain some level of composure. Lady Frost chuckled, and he had the sinking, horrible feeling that she sensed it. He had a worse feeling that she was a replicate of Shaw.

“Don't worry, sugar, I won't tell.”

“Forgive me,” he managed. “If I don't believe you.”

Her steps were slow and languid, but he followed her pattern, where she was moving. He still jumped when her hand settled on his shoulder, the other one curling around his throat, when she stood behind him. She wasn't hurting him—her touch was rather light, really—but it didn't matter. He swallowed, felt his throat bob against her palm, and felt suddenly lightheaded.

“I'm not very good with forgiveness, I'm afraid.” Charles hated, _hated_ that he couldn't see her even as he he was forced to tilt his head back, the weight of his mask setting even harder across his eyes. “But I am quite serious. I won't tell.”

He kept his teeth gritted for his own focus. “Why?”

“Because I won't be getting anything from it,” she explained. Her thumb kneaded against his pulse and he wondered—half realized—if she was affecting the circulation to his brain. “He'll never punish you, of course, I'll just lose some very reliable, efficient workers.”

“You're—” _Wrong._ He would get punished, she was wrong about that, but not entirely. She was right and wrong. On top of Shaw's physical violation there would be three deaths on his head. Three slow, painful deaths that he would be forced to listen to, the same as he had with Erik. There was simply no way to fathom that Shaw would let them—any of them—live if he found out. He breathed, “You're right.”

“Of course I am.” A wave of dark, frozen water floated under the cool detachment of her words. Finally her hands pulled away, and Charles couldn't lift his head. “I know him better than anyone.”

She left before his head had cleared. The sensation of her touch lingered on his throat, despite the lack of skin-to-skin contact, and Charles couldn't tell if it tingled from burn or chill.


End file.
